iisiljtiiaiijfefei 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


^o 


THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/eyesofinnocenceOOIebliala 


There  was  a  faint  sound  behind  her. 


(Page  159) 


THE 
EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 


BY 

MAURICE  LEBLANC 

Author  of  "Arsfene  Lupin,"  "The  Golden  Triangle," 

"The  Woman   of   Mystery,"   "The 

Secret  of  Sarek,"  etc. 


TRANSLATED  BY 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  de  MATTOS 


NEW  YORK 

THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 

1920 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAOK 

I  Gilberts 11 

II  The  Solitary 24 

III  The  Unknown 39 

IV  An  Evening  at  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye's  52 

V  The  Suitors 68 

VI  A  New  Friend 85 

VII  Gilberte's  Two  Friends 103 

VIII  The  Appointment 119 

IX  Affianced 137 

X  The  Deserted  House 150 

XI  Gilberte's  Name 165 


2051236 


THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 


THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 


GILBERTE 

"Would  you  please  give  your  name, 
madam?"  asked  the  waiter. 

And  he  handed  the  elder  of  the  two  travel- 
lers a  sheet  of  paper  headed,  "Villa-pension 
des Deux Mondes,  Dieppe" 

"Write  down  the  name,  Gilberte,"  she 
said.     "I  am  so  tired." 

Gilberte  took  the  pen  and  wrote : 

"Mme.  Armand  and  daughter,  from  Lon- 
don, bound  for.  .  .  .  Now  that  I  think  of  it, 
where  are  we  going  next,  mother?" 

"I  don't  know  yet." 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter!"  said  the  waiter. 

And  he  took  the  paper  and  left  the  room. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Waiter,"  cried  the  young  girl, 

with  a   laugh.     "Mme.   Armand  and  her 

11 


12     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

daughter,  arriving  from  England,  from  Ger- 
many, from  Russia,  coming  to  France  and 
delighted,  especially  Mile.  Armand,  who 
does  not  yet  know  her  own  country !" 

"Will  you  find  happiness  here?"  mur- 
mured her  mother,  sadly,  drawing  her  daugh- 
ter to  her.  "There  is  none  left  for  me,  since 
your  poor  father  is  dead;  but  you,  my  pet, 
my  dear,  loving  Gilberte,  what  has  the  fu- 
ture in  store  for  you?" 

"Why,  joys,  mother  darling,  nothing  but 
the  greatest  joys:  haven't  I  you  with  me?" 

They  exchanged  a  long  embrace.  Then 
Mme.  Armand  said: 

"Gilberte,  the  crossing  has  upset  me;  T 
feel  I  must  lie  down  for  a  while.  Go  and 
sit  on  the  terrace  and  come  back  in  an  hour. 
Then  we  will  unpack  our  trunks  and  go  to 
the  post-office." 

"Are  you  expecting  a  letter?" 

"Yes." 

"From  whom?" 

"How  inquisitive  you  are!" 


GILBERTE  18 

"Oh,  mummy,  you're  always  saying  that! 
But  are  you  sure  that  it's  not  you  who  are  a 
httle — what  shall  I  say — mysterious?  You 
never  answer  even  my  simplest  questions." 

"I  shall  answer  them  one  day,  child,  but 
not  before  I  have  to  .  .  .  not  before  I  have 
to." 

Gilberte  saw  her  mother's  face  wrung 
with  such  anguish  that  she  was  silent  and 
fondly  kissed  her  hand.  Mme.  Armand 
went  on: 

"Yes,  you  are  right.  I  am  a  little  myste- 
rious, very  mysterious  even ;  but  if  you  only 
know  how  it  hurts  me  to  be  so !  Still,  I  will 
answer  you  this  time,  dear:  the  letter  I  am 
expecting  is  from  your  nurse." 

"From  my  nurse?  Then  I  was  brought 
up  in  France?    But  where?" 

Mme.  Armand  was  silent.  Gilberte 
waited  a  few  moments,  then  put  on  her  hat 
and  cloak  and  said : 

"Go  and  lie  down,  mother.  You  poor 
dear,   you  look  as   you   do  on   your   bad 


14     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

days.  .  .  .  There,  I'll  leave  you  in  peace." 

"You  won't  go  out,  will  you,  dear?" 

"Go  out?  I,  who  have  never  left  your 
side?  Why,  I  should  be  afraid  to  walk 
down  the  street  all  by  myself  I  I  shall  be 
back  soon,  dearest." 

She  opened  the  door  and  went  downstairs. 
Above  the  reception-rooms,  which  occupied 
a  wing  consisting  of  a  single  floor,  to  the 
right  of  the  garden,  was  a  terrace  covered 
with  tents  and  wicker  chairs.  She  sat  down 
there. 

It  was  a  mild  and  balmy  October  day. 
The  wide,  deserted  beach  was  bright  with 
sunshine.  The  sea  was  very  calm  and  edged 
with  a  narrow  fringe  of  foam. 

An  hour  passed. 

"I  will  go  in,"  she  said,  "when  that  little 
boat  disappears  behind  the  jetty." 

The  boat  disappeared  and  she  rose  to  her 
feet.  As  she  went  up  the  stairs,  a  childish 
idea  came  into  her  head,  an  idea  which  she 
was  destined  long  to  remember,  together 


GILBERTE  15 

with  the  smallest  details  of  that  terrible  min- 
ute: 

"If  mother  is  still  asleep,"  she  thought,  "I 
will  blow  on  her  forehead  to  wake  her." 

She  listened  at  the  door.  Not  a  sound. 
She  laughed  roguishly.  Then,  slowly,  cau- 
tiously, she  opened  the  door.  Mme.  Ar- 
mand  lay  stretched  on  the  bed.  Gilberte 
went  up  to  her.  For  some  indefinable  rea- 
son, she  forgot  her  intended  joke  and  simply 
kissed  her  mother  on  the  forehead. 

A  cry  escaped  her  lips.  Terror-stricken, 
she  flung  herself  upon  her  mother,  caught 
her  desperately  in  her  arms  and  fell  faint- 
ing beside  the  bed. 

Mme.  Armand  was  dead. 

*     *     * 

A  room  in  which  she  sobs  for  hours  on  end, 
heedless  of  all  things,  huddled  in  a  little 
chair,  or  on  her  knees  before  a  white-cur- 
tained bed ;  people  who  come  and  go ;  a  doc- 
tor who  certifies  the  cause  of  death ;  aneurism 
of  the  heart,  beyond  a  doubt ;  the  lady  of  the 


16     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

house,  who  tries  to  comfort  her;  a  commis- 
sary of  police  who  puts  questions  which  she 
is  unable  to  answer  and  who  makes  her  look 
in  her  mother's  trunks  for  papers  that  are 
not  there :  these  are  Gilberte's  lasting  memo- 
ries of  those  two  dreadful  days. 

Then  came  the  singing  in  the  church,  a 
long  road  between  bare,  wind-stripped  trees, 
the  graveyard  and  the  final  and  irrevocable 
parting  from  her  who,  until  now,  was  all  her 
life,  her  soul,  her  light.  .  .  . 

Oh,  the  first  night  spent  in  solitude  and 
those  first  meals  taken  with  no  one  opposite 
her  and  those  long  interminable  days  during 
which  she  never  stopped  weeping  the  big 
tears  that  come  welling  up  from  the  heart 
as  from  a  spring  which  nothing  can  dry  up ! 
Alone,  knowing  nobody,  what  was  she  to 
do?  Where  could  she  go?  To  whom  could 
she  turn? 

"The  important  thing,"  insisted  the  lady 
of  the  house,  who  sometimes  came  to  see  her 
in  her  room,  "the  most  important  thing  is 


GILBERTE  17 

that  you  should  have  a  solicitor.  Mine  is 
prepared  to  come  whenever  you  please.  I 
spoke  to  him  about  you;  and  it  seems  that 
there  are  formalities.  Remember  what  the 
commissary  said  about  the  papers.  .  .  ." 

Gilberte  remembered  nothing,  for  she  had 
listened  to  nothing.  Nevertheless,  the  per- 
sistency of  this  advice,  repeated  daily  and 
with  such  conviction,  ended  by  persuading 
her;  and,  one  morning,  she  sent  to  ask 
Maitre  Duforneril  to  be  good  enough  to  call 
on  her. 

Maitre  Duforneril  had  one  of  those  placid 
and  good-natured  faces  the  sight  of  which 
seems  to  soothe  you  at  once.  He  gave  the 
impression  of  attaching  so  much  importance 
to  the  business  in  hand  that  it  would  have 
been  impossible  not  to  take  at  least  some 
interest  in  it  one's  self.  Gilberte,  therefore, 
was  obliged  to  reflect,  to  tax  her  memory,  in 
short,  to  reply. 

"From  what  I  have  learnt,  mademoiselle, 
it  is  evident  that  no  papers  have  been  found 


18     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

enabling  us  to  establish  your  mother's  iden- 
tity and  your  own.  The  commissary,  how- 
ever, told  me  of  an  envelope  containing  secu- 
rities which  he  advised  you  to  lock  up  care- 
fully.    Is  it  still  in  your  possession?" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Mother  never  told 
me.  ...  Is  this  what  you  mean?"  she 
asked. 

The  solicitor  took  two  fat,  leather  port- 
folios from  the  mantelpiece  and  opened 
them.     He  was  astounded  at  what  he  saw: 

*'And  do  you  leave  this  lying  about?  .  .  . 
Bonds  payable  to  bearer?" 

Gilberte  blushed,  feeling  as  if  she  had 
committed  some  enormous  crime.  He 
counted  the  sheets,  made  a  rapid  addition 
and  said: 

"You  are  very  well  off,  mademoiselle." 

"Really?"  she  said,  absent-mindedly. 
"Yes  .  .  .  mother  said  something  ..." 

After  a  peace  during  which  he  watched 
her  with  increasing  surprise,  he  asked : 


GILBERTE  19 

"And  have  you  your  mother's  papers, 
your  father's  papers?'* 

"What  papers?" 

"Why,  their  birth-certificates,  your  own, 
their  marriage-certificate,  in  fact,  everything 
that  established  their  position  and  now  estab- 
lishes yours." 

"I  haven't  them." 

"But  they  must  be  somewhere.  .  .  . 
Can  you  give  me  no  clue  as  to  where  they 
are?" 

"No.  .  .  .  But  I  seem  to  remember 
once  hearing  them  talk  of  papers  that  had 
been  lost  ...  or  rather  burnt  in  a  fire 
...  or  else  ...  in  fact,  I  can't  say  for  cer- 
tain." .  .  . 

"Come,  come!"  cried  Maitre  Duforneril. 
"We  are  on  the  wrong  track  altogether! 
Let  us  start  from  the  beginning.  Where 
were  you  born?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"How  do  you  mean,  you  don't  know?" 


20     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

"Mother  would  never  tell  me  exactly." 

"But  where  was  she  born?  And  your 
father?" 

"I  don't  know  that  either." 

The  solicitor  looked  up.  Was  she  laugh- 
ing at  him?  But,  at  the  sight  of  her  sad 
face  and  candid  eyes,  he  was  silent  for  a 
moment  and  then  went  on: 

"You  have  come  from  London?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  have  friends  over  there, 
acquaintances?" 

"No,  we  lived  quite  alone." 

"Never  mind:  if  you  give  me  the  address 
of  the  house  you  lived  in,  we  shall  easily 
find  traces  of  Mme.  Armand." 

"Mother  was  not  called  Mme.  Armand  in 
London ;  she  was  called  Aubert." 

"But  Armand  is  your  real  name  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  At  Liverpool,  where 
we  lived  for  three  years  and  where  father 
died,  last  year,  after  making  such  a  lot  of 
money,  we  were  known  by  the  name  of  Kill- 


GILBERTE  21 

ner.  Before  that,  at  Berlin,  it  was  Dumas. 
'  .  .  And,  at  Moscow"  .  .  . 

"You  don't  know  the  reason  why  your 
parents  used  to  change  their  name  like 
that?" 

"No,  I  do  not." 

"You  saw  nothing  in  your  parents'  char- 
acter to  explain  it?" 

"No,  nothing." 

"Were  they  on  good  terms?" 

"Oh,  yes!  They  were  so  fond  of  each 
other  I     And  mother  was  so  happy!" 

So  happy!  How  positively  Gilberte  was 
able  to  say  that!  Happy  indeed  beside  her 
husband,  under  his  eyes,  with  her  hand  in 
his.  But  why  was  she  so  often  caught  cry- 
ing? Why  those  hours  of  gloomy  melan- 
choly, of  inexplicable  depression?  Why 
had  she  one  day  drawn  her  daughter  to  her, 
stammering : 

"Ah,  my  child ;  my  child !  Never  do  any- 
thing that  you  have  to  hide:  it  is  too  pain- 
ful!" 


22     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

Gilberte  was  on  the  point  of  speaking. 
A  vague  sense  of  shame  prevented  her. 
Besides,  Maitre  Duforneril,  who  had  taken 
down  a  few  notes  in  his  pocket-book,  was 
beginning  again: 

"Give  me  all  the  particulars  that  can  help 
us,  mademoiselle.  The  smallest  details  are 
of  importance." 

She  mentioned  the  towns  in  which  they 
had  lived :  Vienna,  Trieste,  Milan,  with  their 
memories  of  a  secluded  life,  easy  of  late,  but 
so  hard  and  difficult  at  first;  and  then,  fur- 
ther back,  Barcelona,  where  they  had  been 
very  unhappy;  and  then  came  memories, 
more  and  more  indistinct,  of  poverty,  hun- 
ger, cold.  .  .  . 

"We  shall  find  out,  mademoiselle," 
declared  the  solicitor.  "It  won't  be  an  easy 
business,  for  we  have  to  do  with  a  combina- 
tion of  abnormal  circumstances  which  baffle 
me  a  little,  I  admit.  But,  after  all,  it  is 
inconceivable  that  we  should  not  find  out. 
You  have  to  know,  you  must  know  who  you 


GILBERTE  28 

are  and  what  name  you  are  entitled  to  bear. 
Will  you  trust  your  interests  to  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  first  of  all,  you  must  leave  this 
bundle  of  securities  in  my  hands :  I  will  give 
you  a  receipt  for  it.  I  will  cash  the  coupons 
as  they  fall  due  and  send  you  the  proceeds 
when  you  need  money.  Where  were  you 
going  with  your  mother?" 

"She  was  expecting  a  letter." 

"A  letter?     That  is  one  clue." 

"But  the  letter  was  addressed  to  the  pdste 
restante;  and  I  don't  know  in  what  name  or 
initials." 

"True.  .  .  Then  what  do  you  intend  to 
do?" 

"I  intend  to  go  somewhere  at  random.  I 
have  heard  mother  speak  of  Chartres,  Sau- 
mer,  Domfront.  I  shall  choose  one  of  those 
towns,  the  quietest  ...  no  matter  where 
...  as  long  as  I  can  weep  undisturbed." 

"Poor  child  I"  murmured  Maitre  Dufor- 
neril. 


II 

THE  SOLITARY 

"Of  the  fortress  built,  in  1011,  by  Guil- 
laume  de  Belleme,  on  the  summit  of  the  rock 
at  Domfront,  at  300  feet  above  the  little 
River  Varenne,  all  that  is  now  left  standing 
is  two  gi'eat  strips  of  wall,  flanked  by  pictur- 
esque buttresses  and  pierced  with  wide 
arches,  the  remains  of  the  ancient  keep. 
Round  about  are  a  few  traces  of  ramparts 
and  remnants  of  underground  passages,  all 
arranged  in  the  form  of  a  square  and  in  a 
perfect  state  of  preservation." 

The  guide-books,  however,  for  some  rea- 
son, fail  to  mention  the  manor-house  built, 
in  the  seventeenth  century,  by  Pierre  de 
Donnadieu,  Governor  of  Anjou,  on  the  site 
and  with  the  materials  of  the  outbuildings 
of  the  old  fortress.    The  logis,  as  this  sort  of 

24 


THE  SOLITARY  25 

dwelling  is  called  in  Lower  Normandy,  is 
intact  and  wholly  charming.  Four  slender, 
tapering  turrets  grace  the  corners.  An 
enormous  roof,  decked  with  two  monu- 
mental chimneys,  seems  to  top  it  with  a  fool's 
cap,  too  large  for  its  little  granite  forehead 
lined  with  two  rows  of  bricks.  The  entrance 
is  through  the  square,  but  the  main  front 
overlooks  the  precipice  and  a  garden  stag- 
gers down  the  steep  slope  to  the  river  that 
winds  through  the  pretty  Valdes  Rochers. 

Fourteen  years  earlier,  M.  and  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye,  one  of  the  leading  families  of  the 
neighborhood,  had  ruined  themselves  in 
unfortunate  speculations.  M.  de  la  Vaud- 
raye died  of  grief  and  shame.  His  widow, 
in  order  to  pay  for  the  education  of  her  ten- 
year-old  son,  let  the  manor-house,  which 
formed  part  of  her  dowry  and  which  had 
been  in  the  possession  of  her  family  for 
nearly  two  hundred  years.  It  was  taken, 
for  a  time,  by  one  of  the  garrison  officers,  but 
was  now  once  more  untenanted. 


26     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

Here  Gilberte  sought  refuge  like  a  poor 
wounded  animal.  The  very  sleepiness  of 
Domfront  had  attracted  her,  its  look  as  of 
some  vanquished  city,  wearied  of  a  valorous 
past  and  taking  its  just  and  honourable 
repose.  Strolling  through  the  ruins,  she 
saw,  on  the  door  of  the  Logis,  a  notice, 
"To  Let."  She  went  in  search  of  the 
owner. 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye,  a  tall,  thin,  hard- 
eyed  woman,  expressed  herself  in  affected 
sentences  of  which  her  lips  formed  the  syl- 
lables carefully,  one  by  one,  as  though  they 
were  things  of  price  that  must  be  carried  to 
the  highest  pitch  of  perfection. 

"I  can  see  from  j'^our  attitude,  madame," 
she  said,  "that  you  have  been  struck  by 
the  unimpeachable  condition  of  my  house. 
Woodwork,  mirrors,  curtains,  furniture: 
everything  is  in  perfect  repair.  And  yet  the 
Logis  is  one  of  the  most  historic  abodes  in 
the  district"  ... 

Gilberte  was  no  longer  listening.     She 


THE  SOLITARY  27 

had  been  called,  "Madame."  It  had  seemed 
natural  then  to  address  her  like  that?  If 
so,  could  she  pass  as  married,  in  spite  of  her 
age?  The  thought  surprised  her.  And 
yet,  she  reflected,  how  could  any  one  suppose 
that  a  young  girl  would  come  by  herself  to 
treat  for  the  manor-house  and  live  in  it  by 
herself? 

She  remembered  a  piece  of  advice  which 
the  solicitor  had  given  her: 

"If  you  wish  to  lead  a  quiet  hfe,  not  a 
word  about  the  past  before  we  have  shed  a 
full  light  upon  it." 

Yes,  but  how  much  easier  it  would  be  to 
veil  the  past  under  that  name  of  "madame" ! 
And  how  much  better  that  title  would  pro- 
tect her!  As  a  girl,  living  alone,  she  must 
needs  be  the  object  of  curiosity,  the  victim  of 
any  amount  of  gossip.  As  a  married  woman, 
she  would  be  in  a  normal  position;  her 
solitary  existence  would  cause  no  surprise; 
she  could  keep  off  intruders,  go  about  as 
she  pleased,  or  stay  indoors  and  weep,  with 


28     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

none  to  spy  upon  the  secret  of  her  tears. 

"In  what  name  shall  I  make  out  the  agree- 
ment?" asked  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye,  when 
everything  was  settled:  settled  to  the  great 
advantage  of  the  owner,  who  had  increased 
her  rent  by  one-half. 

"Why,  in  my  own  name:  Mme.  Armandl" 
said  Gilberte,  without  foreseeing  the  conse- 
quences which  this  decision  involved. 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  hesitated: 

"But  .  .  .  perhaps  we  shall  want  .  .  . 
M.  Armand's  signature"  .  .  . 

"I  am  a  widow." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !  I  ought  to  have 
known.     I  see  you  are  in  mourning"  .  .  . 

Mme.  Armand  moved  into  the  Logis  that 
same  evening.  At  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye's 
express  recommendation,  she  engaged  as  a 
servant  the  wife  of  the  keeper  of  the  ruins, 
Adele,  a  big,  fat,  talkative  woman,  with  hair 
on  her  upper  lip,  a  stealthy  eye  and  quick, 
blunt  manners.  Bouquetot,  her  husband, 
was  to  sleep  at  the  manor-house;  and  their 


THE  SOLITARY  29 

son,  Antoine,  who  had  just  left  his  regiment, 
would  do  the  heavy  work  and  attend  to  the 

garden. 

*     *     * 

And  hfe  began,  the  hard,  cruel,  despairing 
life  of  those  who  have  no  one  to  love  them 
and  no  one  whom  they  can  love. 

There  was  no  consolation  for  Gilberte, 
after  her  mother's  death.  What  saved  her 
was  the  necessity  to  act,  to  act  continually, 
to  make  decisions,  to  give  orders,  in  short,  to 
exercise  her  will.  She  had  to  shake  off  her 
natural  inclination  for  dreaming  and  listless- 
ness,  to  break  herself  of  the  passive  habits 
due  to  the  existence  which  she  had  led  till 
then.  Things  went  so  badly  at  the  manor- 
house  until  she  realized  the  task  that  lay 
before  her,  the  domestic  duties  were  so  irreg- 
ularly performed,  there  was  so  much  fuss 
and  disorder,  that  she  was  compelled  to  look 
after  her  own  housekeeping. 

She  found  it  difficult  indeed  to  word  the 
first  reprimand: 


30     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

"Adele,  I  do  wish  you  would  serve  lunch 
punctually  I" 

And  she  added,  immediately: 

"Of  course,  I  mean,  when  possible." 

As  ill-luck  would  have  it,  it  was  not  "pos- 
sible" for  three  days  running;  and  Gilberte 
had  to  resolve  to  speak  seriously.  On  the 
fourth  day,  she  went  down  to  the  kitchen, 
very  quickly,  so  as  not  to  let  her  indignation 
cool  on  the  stairs : 

"Adelel     It's  one  o'clock  and"  ... 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  the  fat  woman  broke 
in. 

Gilberte  stopped  short,  hesitated,  blushed 
and  stammered: 

"I  should  so  much  like  to  have  luncheon 
served  at  half -past  twelve  exactly!'* 

From  that  day  forward,  the  meals  were 
punctually  prepared. 

Her  victory  gave  her  self-assurance.  She 
had  the  accounts  brought  to  her  daily, 
although   her   inspection   was   confined   to 


THE  SOLITARY  31 

ascertaining  the  cost  of  things  and  checking 
the  additions. 

With  Gilberte's  affection  and  open  na- 
ture, however,  it  was  difficult  for  her  to 
live  absolutely  cut  off  from  her  fellow-crea- 
tures, as  she  had  first  intended.  True,  she 
refused  to  make  acquaintances ;  and  her  shy- 
ness was  such  that,  after  three  months,  she 
had  not  yet  set  foot  in  the  streets  of  Dom- 
front.  But  those  who  have  been  stricken 
by  fate  have  a  natural  company  of  friends 
in  the  poor,  the  wretched,  the  destitute,  the 
outcast;  and  her  heart  could  not  avoid  the 
sort  of  friendship  built  upon  adversity. 

Between  Gilberte  and  the  first  beggar  who 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  Logis  there  was 
more  than  an  alms  and  a  thank-you:  there 
was  the  delight  of  giving  on  one  side  and, 
on  the  other,  gratitude  for  the  smile  and  the 
good  grace  of  her  who  gave.  Nor  could 
it  be  otherwise.  Even  if  Gilberte  had  not 
had  that  pretty,  fair  hair  which  frolicked 


32     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

around  her  face  like  little  flickering  flames, 
nor  those  gentle  lips,  nor  those  pink  cheeks 
which  gave  her  face  the  freshness  of  a  flower, 
she  would  still  have  been  bewitchingly  beau- 
tiful, thanks  to  her  blue  eyes,  which  were 
always  a  little  dewy,  as  though  tears  were 
playing  in  them,  and  always  smiling,  even  at 
the  times  of  her  deepest  sadness.  And  her 
look,  her  figure,  all  her  delicate  and  attrac- 
tive personality  breathed  such  touching  pur- 
ity that  the  most  indifferent  were  lapped  in 
it  as  in  the  soft  caresses  of  a  balmy  breeze. 

Her  charm  was  made  up  of  goodness,  sim- 
plicity and,  above  all,  innocence,  that  inno- 
cence which  is  unaware  of  its  own  existence, 
which  knows  nothing  of  life,  which  suspects 
no  evil  and  which  does  not  see  the  traps  laid 
for  it,  nor  the  hypocrisy  that  surrounds  it, 
nor  the  envy  which  it  inspires. 

JLa  Bonne  Demoiselle  was  the  name  by 
which  the  poor  called  her,  thus  correcting, 
by  a  sort  of  common  instinct,  the  style  which 
circumstances  had  compelled  her  to  adopt. 


THE  SOLITARY  33 

And,  in  all  the  garrets  of  Domfront,  in  all 
the  cabins  and  cottages  of  the  neighbourhood, 
people  spoke  of  la  Bonne  Demoiselle  of  the 
Logis,  of  la  Bonne  Demoiselle  who  mourned 
her  husband's  memory  and  smiled  upon  the 
poor. 

Her  gentle  smile  worked  many  a  miracle 
in  that  little  world,  dispelled  many  a  hatred, 
stifled  many  a  rebellious  impulse,  healed 
many  a  sore.  Men  and  women  consulted 
her,  inexperienced  girl  that  she  was,  and, 
what  was  more,  followed  her  advice. 

A  mother  came  one  day,  with  her  baby  in 
her  arms.  She  told  the  tragedy  of  her  life, 
spoke  of  an  elopement,  a  desertion.  Gil- 
berte  understood  nothing  of  her  story.  Yet 
the  mother,  in  an  hour,  went  away  consoled. 

Young  girls  came  and  asked  her  opinion 
about  getting  married;  women  came  and 
enlarged  upon  their  domestic  quarrels; 
others  came  and  told  her  things  that  bewil- 
dered her.  All  these  problems,  all  these 
cases  of  conscience  Mme.  Armand,  la  Bonne 


34     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

Demoiselle^  solved  with  her  innocence,  the 
innocence  of  a  child  that,  knowing  nothing, 
knows  more  than  they  who  know  everything. 

One  evening,  Adele  brought  her  house- 
keeping-book. Gilberte  gravely  added  the 
column  and  initialed  it. 

"But  madame  is  not  even  looking  to  see 
what  I  bought  and  how  much  I  paid." 

Gilberte  blushed: 

"You  see.  ...  I  don't  know  much  about 
it.  ...  So  I  leave  it  to  you.  .  .  .  Besides, 
I  have  no  reason  to  suspect  you.  .  .  ." 

There  must  have  been  something  in  the 
tone  of  her  words,  something  special  in  her 
air  and  attitude ;  at  any  rate,  the  old  woman 
was  seized  with  extraordinary  excitement, 
and,  flinging  herself  on  her  knees  before  her 
mistress,  cried: 

"Oh,  it's  a  shame  to  cheat  a  person  like 
you,  ma'am!  I  can  have  no  heart  at  all,  nor 
my  great  rascal  of  a  Bouquetot  either  I  .  .  . 
Why,  you  must  be  an  angel  from  Heaven 
not  to  see  that  everybody's  robbing  you:  the 


THE  SOLITARY  86 

grocer,  the  baker,  the  butcher,  and  I  most 
of  all!  .  .  .  Just  look  at  my  book:  a  bunch 
of  carrots,  thirty  sous;  a  wretched  chicken, 
six  francs  fifteen  sous.  .  .  ." 

She  emptied  her  purse  on  the  table: 

"There  I  Fifty  or  sixty  francs  I've  done 
you  out  of,  all  in  one  month!  .  .  .  But  I 
stopped  the  other  day,  I  couldn't  do  it,  it 
broke  my  heart  to  see  you  like  that,  so  trust- 
mg.  .  .  . 

"My  poor  Adele,"  whispered  Gilberte, 
greatly  moved. 

"And  then  .  .  .  and  then,"  continued  the 
woman,  in  a  low  voice,  with  bent  head,  "I 
have  something  else  to  confess.  .  .  .  But  I 
dare  not:  it's  so  shameful.  .  .  .  Listen.  .  .  . 
Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  .  .  .  well,  she  put  me 
here  to  tell  her  all  about  you:  what  you  did; 
if  you  received  any  letters ;  if  you  talked  to 
gentlemen.  .  .  .  And,  in  the  morning,  when 
I  went  to  do  my  shopping,  I  used  to  go  to 
her  .  .  .  and  tell  her  what  I  saw.  .  .  .  Oh, 
there  was  nothing  wrong  to  tell,  for  you  are 


36     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

a  real  saint!  .  .  .  But,  all  the  same.  .  .  . 
Forgive  me!" 

The  old  servant's  confusion  was  touching. 
Gilberte  gently  raised  her  from  the  floor  and 
said: 

"There,  we'll  say  no  more  about  it.  But 
why  is  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  interested  in 
me  and  my  doings?" 

"Goodness  knows!  She's  always  poking 
her  nose  in  everywhere  and  wants  to  manage 
everything  at  Domfront  and  every  one  to 
obey  her.  And  you  don't  know  how  they 
talk  about  you  here!  There's  no  lack  of 
gossip,  I  can  tell  you!" 

"About  me?" 

"Yes.  They  want  to  know  where  you 
come  from,  who  M.  Armand  was,  all  sorts  of 
things !  Then  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  speech- 
ifies about  you  in  her  drawing-room.  Just 
think,  you're  her  tenant;  and  she's  the  only 
one  who  has  spoken  to  you!  .  ,  .  And  then 
I've  guessed  something  else.  .  .  ." 

"What's  that,  Adele?" 


THE  SOLITARY  87 

"Well,  you  are  rich  and  a  widow;  I'm  sure 
she's  after  you  as  a  daughter-in-law.  .  .  . 
That  I'd  take  my  oath  on!  .  .  .  Oh,  she  has 
her  head  screwed  on  her  shoulders!  A  fine 
lady  like  you  for  her  penniless  beggar  of  a 
son,  a  good-for-nothing  who  can't  put  his 
hand  to  anything!  .  .  ." 

Gilberte  listened  to  her  in  utter  confusion. 
Wasn't  it  possible  to  remain  hidden  and 
unknown?  Were  there  really  people  who 
spied  on  others,  who  tried  to  fathom  the  mys- 
tery of  their  lives  and  actually  plotted 
against  them? 

But  Adele  said,  in  a  big,  fond  voice: 

"Don't  you  worry  yourself,  ma  Bonne 
Demoiselle.  I'm  here  and  I'll  look  after 
you  and  look  after  your  money.  Oh,  the 
grocer  and  the  butcher  and  the  rest  had  best 
mind  what  they're  about!  .  .  .  You  let  me 
be:  you  won't  be  overcharged  any  more.  .  .  . 
And  then  Bouquetot  is  there  and  my  son 
Antoine:  they're  decent  fellows  both  .  .  . 
and   fell   in  love  with  you  at   once  .  .  . 


38     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

because  .  .  .  because  there's  something  dif- 
ferent about  you  .  .  .  something  that  makes 
people  love  you  ...  in  spite  of  themselves 
.  .  .  with  all  their  hearts.  .  .  ." 


Ill 

THE  UNKNOWN 

Every  day,  when  her  household  duties 
were  done,  Gilberte  walked  in  her  garden. 
This  was  her  hour  of  recreation.  But  a 
sweeter  hour  followed,  which  she  allotted  to 
dreaming. 

High  up,  on  the  left,  on  a  jutting  prom- 
ontory, was  a  clearing  where  stood  the  ruins 
of  a  little  summer-house.  The  view  from 
here  extended,  over  undulating  plains,  to  the 
dark  heights  of  Mortain.  On  the  right,  the 
other  side  of  the  valley  was  a  wall  of  red 
rocks,  clad  in  broom  and  fir-trees.  It  was  a 
landscape  of  illimitable  distances  and,  at  the 
same  time,  tender  and  familiar  through  the 
homeliness  of  this  little  glen,  a  landscape 
which  had  all  the  wild  and  rugged  poetry  of 
a  Breton  moor.  .  .  . 

The  daylight  waned  early  in  those  winter 

39 


40     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

months.  Gilberte  waited  until  the  veil  of 
night  smothered  its  last  glimmers.  Some- 
times, the  sun's  reflections  would  linger  on 
the  motionless  clouds.  Then  the  darkness 
seemed  to  come  from  every  side,  to  rise  from 
the  river,  to  fall  from  the  overcast  sky,  to 
ooze  from  the  earth  in  thick  mists.  Then 
Gilberte  would  go  indoors. 

But,  one  evening,  at  that  murky  moment 
of  twilight,  she  saw,  on  the  opposite  slope,  a 
human  form  issuing  from  a  hollow  among 
the  rocks  and  vanishing  behind  a  tree. 

She  would  hardly  have  paid  attention  to 
it,  if,  on  the  next  day,  when  her  eyes  turned 
in  that  direction  on  returning  from  her 
walk,  she  had  not  perceived,  in  the  same 
place,  the  same  form  as  on  the  day  before: 
a  man's  figure,  obviously,  but  so  well  hidden 
that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  distinguish 
the  least  detail  of  his  face  or  dress. 

On  the  day  after  that,  he  was  not  there; 
but  he  was  there  on  the  following  day  and 
almost  every  day  afterwards. 


THE  UNKNOWN  41 

Gilberte  soon  noticed  that  he  slipped 
through  the  fir-trees  a  little  before  her  ar- 
rival and  went  away  soon  after  she  was  gone. 

Then  was  he  there  for  her?  She  did  not 
ask  herself  this  question,  but,  all  unwittingly, 
she  was  pleased  at  the  fact  that  some  one  was 
there,  dreaming  doubtless  like  herself,  some 
one  whom  she  did  not  know,  who  was  not 
seeking  to  know  her  and  of  whom  she 
thought  only  as  an  invisible  companion,  a 
more  or  less  real  ghost,  a  freak  of  her  imagi- 
nation. She  had  not  the  least  curiosity  con- 
cerning others  and  would  never  have  sup- 
posed that  any  one  could  have  the  least 
curiosity  concerning  her.  He  was  there  for 
the  same  reasons  that  brought  her  there,  be- 
cause it  is  good  to  see  night  blend  with  day 
and  because  that  twilight  hour  is  full  of 
charm  and  peace. 

And  so  she  had  a  friend,  a  distant  and  in- 
accessible friend,  from  whom  she  would  have 
hidden  herself  for  ever,  if  he  had  dared  to 
show  himself  or  even  let  her  see  by  a  move- 


42     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

ment  that  he  was  there  for  her,  but  who  did 
not  frighten  her,  for  the  sole  reason  that  he 
seemed  to  have  no  actual  existence. 

"Are  you  not  afraid  of  catching  cold,  dear 
madame?" 

It  was  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye,  who  took 
her  by  surprise  one  evening,  at  the  summer- 
house  and  at  once  continued,  in  her  affected 
voice : 

"I  owe  you  a  thousand  apologies.  The 
merest  politeness  demanded  that  I  should 
pay  you  a  visit,  but  what  shall  I  say?  I 
have  so  many  duties,  so  many  cares!  I  am 
the  president  of  a  number  of  charitable  com- 
mittees which  take  up  all  my  time.  Besides, 
I  confess,  I  was  afraid  of  appearing  indis- 
creet. I  so  much  dread  to  push  myself  for- 
ward! Still,  I  thought  it  was  time  to  try 
and  bring  some  diversion  into  the  nun's  life 
which  you  are  leading." 

"You  are  too  kind,"  said  Gilberte,  touched 
by  this  solicitude. 

"I  felt,  dear  madame,  that  your  days  must 


THE  UNKNOWN  48 

be  so  dull.  Your  evenings  especially  must 
seem  endless.  How  do  you  manage  to  fill 
them?" 

They  had  returned  to  the  Logis.  A  good 
fire  warmed  the  boudoir  in  which  Gilberte 
liked  best  to  sit.  The  lamp  was  lighted. 
There  was  some  music  on  the  piano.  The 
table  was  heaped  with  books  and  papers. 

"You  see,  madame,  I  play  and  read:  I 
read  a  great  deal." 

"Novels,  I  expect  I"  said  the  visitor,  with 
a  titter.  "May  I  look?  .  .  .  What  have  we 
here?  An  atlas  ,  .  .  manuals  of  history 
•  .  .  and  literature  .  .  .  selected  essays  .  .  . 
memoirs  I  Are  you  superintending  some- 
body's education?" 

"My  own,"  said  Gilberte,  laughing.  "It 
has  been  a  little  neglected;  and,  as  I  have 
plenty  of  time  ..." 

"But  many  of  the  books  are  in  English 
...  in  German  even  .  .  ." 

"I  know  English  and  German." 

"Quite  a  learned  person!    But  how  well 


44     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

you  would  get  on  with  my  son!  He  is  so 
studious  and  cultured  1  He  writes  for  the 
Paris  papers.  .  .  .  Not  under  his  own 
name,  of  course:  he  would  never  consent  to 
commit  the  name  of  La  Vaudraye  to  an 
occupation  which,  after  all,  is  only  an  amuse- 
ment. He  quite  agrees  with  me  on  that 
question  .  .  .  as  on  every  other.  .  .  .  Why 
don't  you  come  to  us  one  evening?  We 
have  a  few  friends  who  are  pleased  to  make 
my  drawing-room  their  daily  meeting-place. 
.  .  .  Everybody  is  dying  to  see  you,  Guil- 
laume  most  of  all.  .  .  ." 

His  mother's  description  of  young  Guil- 
laume  de  la  Vaudraye  was  hardly  of  a  nature 
to  charm  Gilberte  from  her  isolation.  She 
found  an  excuse. 

"You  are  making  a  mistake,"  cried  Mme. 
de  fe.  Vaudraye,  who  was  irritated  by  her 
refusal.  "Good  friends  are  a  necessity: 
they  protect  you  against  evil  tongues." 

"Evil  tongues?" 

"Yes,  yes,  you  can  imderstand  that  one 


THE  UNKNOWN  45 

can't  live  as  you  do  without  attracting  com- 
ment in  a  small  town.  People  ask  them- 
selves— and  not  without  some  justice,  as  you 
must  admit — the  reason  of  your  voluntary 
imprisonment.  All  the  more  so  because,  as 
I  hear,  your  servant,  Adele,  keeps  a  silent 
tongue  in  her  head ;  and  that  sets  public  opin- 
ion against  you.     Lastly,  they  say  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"Well,  they  say  that  you  are  leading  such 
a  secret  existence  because  .  .  ." 

"Because  what?" 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  hesitated,  or  rather 
seemed  to  hesitate,  and  then  blurted  out: 

"Because  you  do  not  live  alone." 

She  rose,  thinking  that  Gilberte  must  be 
crushed  under  this  accusation.  But  Gil- 
berte, casting  about  ingenuously  for  what 
her  visitor  could  have  meant,  repeated: 

"Not  alone!  Well,  of  course  not,  as 
Adele  is  here,  with  her  husband  and  her 
son!" 

"There,  don't  be  alarmed,  child,"   con- 


46     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

eluded  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye,  in  a  patroniz- 
ing little  way.  "That  is  only  so  much  talk 
and  gossip,  which  I  shall  know  how  to  put 
down,  if  you  will  help  me.  It  only  wants  a 
small  sacrifice.  For  instance,  I  shall  be 
making  the  collection  at  High  Mass,  on  Sun- 
day: promise  me  to  come.  It's  a  promise, 
isn't  it?"  she  said,  as  she  went  away. 

Gilberte  would  much  rather  have  stayed 
quietly  at  home;  but,  as  she  had  been  told 
that  that  was  impossible,  she  gave  up  the 
idea: 

"It  seems  to  hurt  people,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. 

And,  on  the  Sunday  morning,  when  the 
bells  rang  for  mass,  she  left  the  Logis  for 
the  first  time. 

She  felt,  in  the  crowded  high-street,  as 
though  she  were  awaking  from  a  dream  of 
peace  and  silence,  so  intense  was  her  dislike 
of  bustle  and  noise.  There  were  people  at 
the  windows,  people  at  the  shop-doors,  peo- 
ple in  the  church-porch ;  and  all  those  people 


THE  UNKNOWN  47 

were  watching  her,  staring  at  her  and  whis- 
pering as  she  passed. 

The  church  was  a  refuge,  despite  the 
crowd  that  filled  it  and  despite  the  excite- 
ment provoked  by  her  presence.  Every  one 
was  astounded  at  her  youthfulness,  dazzled 
by  her  beauty.  When  she  walked  down  the 
nave  again,  a  murmur  of  admiration  rippled 
through  the  rows  of  worshippers.  But, 
when  she  reached  the  holy-water  basin,  an 
incident  occurred  that  delayed  her  for  a  few 
seconds.  Three  men  had  rushed  forward. 
And,  with  one  movement,  three  hands  were 
dipped  into  the  marble  basin  and  held  out 
to  her.  She  lowered  her  veil  and  went 
on. 

Outside  the  church,  the  crowd  stood  wait- 
ing for  her.  Gilberte  hurried  along,  feeling 
her  shyness  returning  in  the  sunlight.  Her 
one  idea  was  to  get  back  to  the  Logis,  back 
into  the  shade.  But  there  was  a  pastry- 
cook's shop  at  the  end  of  the  high-street; 
she  caught  sight  of  the  window  crammed 


48     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

with  dainty  custards  and  many-coloured 
cakes ;  and,  as  she  was  not  prepared  for  such 
a  temptation,  she  succumbed. 

Slowly  and  hesitatingly,  she  made  her 
choice.  The  shop-woman  did  up  the  parcel; 
Gilberte  took  it  and  moved  away.  But  at 
the  door  she  stopped,  timidly.  A  group  of 
street-boys  was  standing  outside. 

There  they  were,  with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets,  like  loafers  feasting  their  eyes  on  an 
unusual  sight.  She  went  out.  They  ran  on 
either  side  of  her,  making  a  great  din  with 
their  wooden  shoes.  Gilberte  suffered  tor- 
tures. 

Suddenly,  she  heard  cries  and  laughter 
behind  her.  She  turned  round.  A  yoimg 
man,  whom  she  recognized  as  one  of  the 
three  who  offered  her  the  holy  water,  had 
darted  into  the  midst  of  her  escort  and  was 
dispersing  it  with  uplifted  cane.  She  bowed 
her  head,  in  sign  of  thanks,  and  continued  on 
her  way. 

An  hour  later,  as  she  was  finishing  lunch. 


THE  UNKNOWN  49 

Adele  brought  her  an  enormous  sheaf  of 
flowers:  roses,  white  hlac  and  cameUias.  A 
peasant  had  handed  them  to  the  servant 
without  a  word  of  explanation. 

"But  I  know  who  sent  them,"  said  AdMe. 
"It  can  only  be  M.  Beaufrelant.  He  has 
the  finest  hot -houses  in  the  district ;  he  is  mad 
on  flowers.  Madame  must  have  seen  him  in 
church:  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  whiskers.'* 

Bouquetot,  Adele's  husband,  entered: 

"An  old  woman  has  brought  this  letter 
for  madame." 

Gilberte  opened  the  envelope.  It  con- 
tained a  thousand-franc  note  and  a  few 
words  written  in  a  copper-plate  hand  on 
pink  note-paper: 

"To  Mme.  Armand,  for  her  poor." 

"A  bank-note  I  It  must  be  that  money- 
bags of  a  M.  le  Hourteulx.  Let  me  see  the 
hand-writing.  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  right;  I  was 
in  service  with  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  fine  fellow, 
if  you  think  that,  because  you  possess  bun- 


50     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

dreds  and  thousands !  .  .  .  Not  a  word.  .  .  . 
I  know  what's  what !" 

Bouquetot  said  to  his  wife : 

"I  met  Mme.  Duval,  the  chair-attendant, 
in  the  town  just  now.  She  told  me  that  M. 
Beaufrelant  and  M.  le  Hourteulx  were 
standing  by  the  holy-water  basin  in  church 
this  morning;  and  young  Simare  as  well. 
And  then  the  barber  told  me  that  young  Si- 
mare followed  madame  and  drove  away  the 
street-boys  who  ran  after  her." 

Gilberte  thought  for  a  moment  and  said: 

"Go  to  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye,  Adele,  tell 
her  how  this  money  and  these  flowers  came 
into  my  hands  and  ask  her  to  oblige  me  by 
returning  them  to  the  senders.  But  the 
poor  must  not  be  the  losers ;  and  here  is  an- 
other thousand-franc  note  which  I  beg  that 
she  will  distribute  as  she  thinks  best." 

That  afternoon,  Gilberte  remained  pen- 
sive. Those  two  presents  surprised  her. 
Her  ignorance  of  social  usages  did  not  allow 
her  to  see  any  indelicacy  or  indiscretion  in 


THE  UNKNOWN  51 

the  way  in  which  they  were  offered;  and  yet 
she  felt  that  there  was  something  that  should 
not  have  been  done. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  wondered,  with 
a  vague  anxiety.  "What  do  they  want  with 
me?" 

It  was  the  outside  world  trying  to  insinu- 
ate itself  into  her  peaceful  home,  into  her 
independent  life:  the  world  with  its  sordid 
calculations,  its  intrigues,  its  vanities,  its 
stealthy  encroachments  upon  those  who  seek 
solitude,  its  instinctive  jealousy  of  those  who 
are  able  to  do  without  it. 

At  nightfall,  she  walked  to  the  ruined 
summer-house.  The  stranger  was  there, 
among  the  rocks  opposite.  She  recovered 
all  her  serenity.  And  not  for  a  second  did 
the  idea  cross  her  mind  that  he  might  be  one 
of  the  three  who  had  forced  their  attentions 
upon  her. 


IV 

AN  EVENING  AT  MME.   DE  LA  VAUDRAYE's 

It  would  be  wearisome  to  describe  the 
long  series  of  moves  and  machinations,  the 
whole  comedy  of  affectation  and  pretended 
solicitude  which  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  em- 
ployed to  induce  Gilberte  to  come  and  see 
her.  One  day,  at  last,  Gilberte  promised, 
on  the  understanding  that  there  would  be  no 
one  there  but  the  regular  visitors  to  the 
house. 

And,  in  the  evening,  Adele,  carrying  a 
lantern  and  muttering  between  her  teeth, 
accompanied  her  through  the  deserted 
streets. 

It  was  a  very  modest  house  that  was  occu- 
pied by  her  who  remained  the  first  lady  of 
Domfront  despite  her  shattered  fortunes. 
No  show,  no  comfort,  hardly  room  for  the 

52 


MME.  DE  LA  VAUDRAYE'S     53 

mother  and  son;  but  there  was  a  salon,  a 
sumptuous  salon,  a  salon,  to  which  every- 
thing had  been  sacrificed,  a  salon  that  en- 
abled Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  to  declare,  with 
pride : 

"I  have  a  salon/' 

And  the  townspeople  nodded  their  heads 
in  chorus : 

"Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  has  a  salon/* 

In  so  saying,  they  had  in  mind  not  only 
the  costly  furniture  heaped  up  in  that  one 
room,  but  also  the  shining  lights  of  the  town 
who  adorned  it  with  their  presence.  You 
were  really  nobody  at  Domfront  if  you  did 
not  form  part  of  the  salon  of  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye. 

In  its  essence  and  as  Gilberte  saw  it,  the 
salon  consisted  of  an  old-oak  chest  and  an 
Empire  sideboard,  of  the  Bottentuit  and 
Charmeron  couples  and  their  five  young 
ladies,  of  M.  and  Mme.  Lartiste  and  their 
son,  of  Mile,  du  Bocage,  of  M.  Beaufrelant, 
M.  Hourteulx  and  Messrs.  Simare,  father 


54     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

and  son,  of  a  Louis  XV  clock,  of  a  lacquered 
glass-case,  and  of  a  set  of  chairs  and  arm- 
chairs upholstered  in  crimson  silk. 

A  great  silence,  composed  of  eager  curios- 
ity, admiration  and  envy,  greeted  Gilberte's 
entrance.  The  hostess  at  once  made  the  in- 
troductions, or  rather  chiselled  them  out  in 
elaborate  phrases.     Gilberte  bowed. 

"And  my  son?  Where  is  my  dear  Guil- 
laume?" 

He  was  extracted  from  a  small  side-room. 

"Dear  Mme.  Armand,  here  is  my  Guil- 
laume,  who  is  so  anxious  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance." 

Guillaume  de  la  Vaudraye  was  not  at  all 
bad-looking,  with  a  very  good  figure ;  but  he 
had  a  sullen  expression  and  his  manners 
seemed  constrained.  He  gave  a  bow  and 
vanished. 

There  was  an  attempt  at  general  conversa- 
tion, which  fell  very  flat.  People  exchanged 
distressful  looks  and  dared  not  raise  their 
voices.    Gilberte  did  not  utter  a  word. 


MME.  DE  LA  VAUDRAYE'S     55 

Then,  to  break  the  ice,  a  rush  was  made 
for  the  principal  person  present,  the  last  re- 
source of  drawing-rooms.  He  always  lords 
it  in  the  place  of  honour,  displaying  the  ex- 
pansive smile  of  his  large  yellow  teeth.  He 
looks  like  a  squatting  Hindu  idol ;  he  is  well- 
groomed,  shiny  and  pretentious.  He  is  the 
centre  of  social  life,  the  ever-ready  rescuer, 
the  life  and  soul  of  the  company,  the  master 
of  ceremonies,  the  master  of  the  revels,  the 
vanisher  of  intolerable  silence.  And  none 
can  contest  his  supremacy,  for  he  alone  is 
capable  of  making  so  much  noise  without  be- 
coming exhausted  and  of  making  more  noise 
by  himself  than  all  the  rest  put  together. 
The  specimen  in  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye's 
drawing-room  was  signed,  "Pleyel." 

It  was  as  though  the  parts  had  been 
allotted  beforehand.  Two  groups  were 
formed:  the  audience  and  the  performers. 
Gilberte  found  herself  seated  between  Mme. 
Charmeron,  who  was  famed  for  her  persist- 
ent dumbness  and  distinction,  and  M.  Simare 


56     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

junior,  the  best-dressed  and  most  dissipated 
young  man  in  the  town.  He  went  twice  a 
year  to  Paris  and  was  looked  upon  as  a  mas- 
ter of  wit  and  satire.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  started  chaffing  at  once: 

"Ah,  the  overture  of  The  Bronze  Horse 
by  a  Demoiselle  Charmeron  and  a  Demoi- 
selle Bottentuit!  That's  the  invariable  first 
piece  here.  Ten  years  ago,  it  seems,  it  was 
played  by  Mme.  Bottentuit  and  her  sister, 
Mme.  Charmeron ;  to-day,  their  heiresses  are 
following  in  their  footsteps.  Observe  how 
beautifully  the  two  young  ladies  hold  them- 
selves. Their  ambition  is  to  realize  the  back 
view  of  a  pair  of  sticks.  They  practise  it 
for  four  hours  every  morning.  ..." 

When  the  last  chords  had  been  banged 
out,  he  continued ; 

"Now,  the  little  Charmeron  girl  will  move 
off  on  the  right,  taking  her  stool  with  her, 
and  the  little  Bottentuit  girl  will  slide  to  the 
middle  of  the  key-board.  From  the  per- 
former that  she  was  she  will  become  the  ac- 


MME.  DE  LA  VAUDRAYE'S     57 

companist  of  papa.  There,  what  did  I  tell 
you?  It's  all  settled  beforehand!  Look 
outl  Maitre  Bottentuit,  the  attorney,  the 
drawing-room  howler,  is  going  off,  going  off, 
I  say.  ...  I  defy  you  to  make  out  a  word 
he  sings.  .  .  .  People  have  been  trying  for 
ten  years;  and  no  one  has  ever  succeeded. 
.  .  .  Excuse  me  .  .  .  got  to  stop  .  .  .  can't 
hear  myself  talk  .  .  .  the  wretch  is  bawling 
too  loud.  .  .  ." 

After  Maitre  Bottentuit,  Mile,  du  Bocage 
— a  little  old  maid  whose  mouth  opened  so 
wide  that  you  could  have  dived  down  her 
throat — struck  up  the  duet  in  Mireille,  sup- 
ported by  M.  Lartiste  the  elder,  an  old  man, 
with  a  clean-shaven  face,  whose  mouth,  on 
the  contrary,  remained  hermetically  closed, 
with  the  results  that  both  parts  of  the  duet — 
not  only  the  cooing  roulades  of  the  woman, 
but  also  the  frenzied  appeals  of  the  man,  his 
prayers,  his  promises,  his  metamorphoses 
into  a  bird  and  a  butterfly — seemed  to  issue 
from  the  yawning  throat  of  Mireille,  that 


58     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

gulf  where  you  saw  a  host  of  httle  pieces  of 
mechanism  madly  at  work.  The  loving 
couple  had  a  great  success. 

"M.  le  Hourteulx  next,"  said  young  Si- 
mare.  "Our  millionaire  is  going  to  sing  for 
you,  madame,  for,  you  know,  he  has  been 
smitten  with  a  passion  since  he  saw  you  in 
church;  a  passion  shared,  of  course,  by  his 
enemy  Beaufrelant,  for  the  two  men  always 
form  the  same  wishes,  so  as  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  thwarting  each  other.  It's  a  long- 
standing hatred:  le  Hourteulx  was  married 
once;  and  it  seems  that  Beaufrelant  .  .  ." 

Simare  bent  over  towards  Gilberte  and 
whispered  a  few  words  in  her  ear. 

Young  Lartiste,  who  owed  his  fame  as  a 
great  actor  to  his  name  and  to  his  name 
alone,  was  reserved  for  the  end. 

"No  one  recites  like  young  Lartiste,"  peo- 
ple said  at  Domfront. 

And,  from  the  first  words  that  he  spoke, 
everybody  watched  Gilberte,  to  enjoy  her 
amazement.     Unfortunately,    Simare    was 


MME.  DE  LA  VAUDRAYE'S     59 

continuing  his  more  or  less  decorous  reflex- 
ions; and  Gilberte,  although  not  always 
catching  his  exact  meaning,  felt  so  uncom- 
fortable that  she  did  not  listen  to  young  Lar- 
tiste  at  all  and  forgot  to  applaud  at  the 
striking  passages,  an  omission  that  was  put 
down  to  her  bad  taste. 

"Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  is  furious,"  said 
Simare.  "Her  son's  gone.  And  I  expect 
she  jolly  well  lectured  him  about  making 
himself  agreeable  to  you.  By  Jove,  when 
you're  a  mother,  you  have  to  think  of  your 
son's  future.  But  Guillaume  making  him- 
self agreeable  is  a  sight  that  was  never  yet 
seen!  Besides,  he  looks  down  upon  us  too 
much  to  remain  in  the  drawing-room.  Just 
fancy,  a  writer  like  him !  .  .  .  Oh,  I  say,  ma- 
dame,  look  at  the  eyes  Beaufrelant's  making 
at  you  I  Beaufrelant  is  the  Don  Juan  of 
Domfront.  No  one  can  resist  him.  They 
even  say  .  .  .  but  I  don't  know  if  I  ought. 
.  .  .  Pooh,  you  have  a  fan  ...  if  you  want 
to  blush.  .  .  ." 


60     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

And  he  again  leant  over  towards  Gilberte. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  at  the  first  words. 
Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  came  running  up  to 
her: 

"I  am  sure  that  that  scapegrace  of  a  Si- 
mare  is  saying  all  sorts  of  things  that  he 
shouldn't." 

She  drew  her  aside : 

"Be  careful  with  him,  my  child,"  she  said. 
"I  can  see  through  his  designs:  he  is  trying 
to  compromise  you.  He  is  head  over  ears  in 
debt  and  hunting  for  a  fortune.  .  .  .  But 
haven't  you  seen  Guillaume?  Wait  for  me 
here,  I'll  bring  him  to  you." 

Simare  came  up  to  Gilberte : 

"I  must  apologize  to  you,  madame;  I 
shocked  you  just  now." 

"No,  no,"  stammered  Gilberte,  driven  to 
her  wits'  end  by  this  persistency,  "only  I 
thought  I  ought  not  to  .  .  ." 

He  interrupted  her: 

"It  was  I  who  ought  not.  I  couldn't  help 
it:  I  was  talking,  talking  a  little  at  random, 


MME.  DE  LA  VAUDRAYE'S     61 

lest  I  should  say  what  I  have  no  right  to  say, 
what  lies  deep  down  within  myself,  one  of 
those  involuntary  sentiments.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  so  sorry,  Mme.  Armand,"  cried  the 
hostess,  returning.  "My  son  was  a  little 
tired  and  has  gone  up  to  his  room." 

The  musical  and  literary  evening  was 
over.  But  the  resources  of  the  la  Vaudraye 
salon  did  not  end  there.  Its  frequenters 
prided  themselves  on  knowing  how  to  talk. 
And  the  conversation  went  by  rule,  of 
course,  as  everything  went  by  rule  in  this 
society  which,  by  the  almost  daily  repetition 
of  the  same  acts,  had  established  habits  as 
strong  as  immutable  laws. 

The  licensed  talkers  were  M.  Beaufrelant, 
who,  they  said,  cultivated  the  flowers  of  rhet- 
oric with  the  same  zeal  and  the  same  success 
as  the  flowers  of  the  soil;  Mme.  de  la  Vau- 
draye, who  specialized  in  literary  discus- 
sions; M.  Lartiste,  who,  as  a  printer,  was 
naturally  marked  out  for  the  loftiest  philo- 
sophical speculations;  M.  Simare  the  elder. 


62     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

a  remarkable  spinner  of  anecdotes;  and, 
lastly,  M.  Charmeron  and  his  sister-in-law, 
Mme.  Bottentuit,  who  found,  in  their  morbid 
need  for  contradicting  and  disputing  with 
each  other,  an  inexhaustible  source  of  opin- 
ions, witticisms  and  banter.  Outside  these 
privileged  and,  so  to  speak,  official  protago- 
nists, it  was  very  seldom  that  any  one  ven- 
tured to  open  his  mouth. 

Gilberte,  who  was  beginning  to  feel  ter- 
ribly bored,  listened  without  a  word,  which 
was  taken  for  a  sign  of  admiring  deference. 
The  truth  is  that  this  oratorical  joust  sur- 
prised her  greatly.  All  these  people,  speak- 
ing turn  and  turn  about,  seemed  to  be  pur- 
suing so  many  different  conversations,  each 
of  them  thinking  only  of  shining  in  the  de- 
partment that  had  devolved  upon  himself. 
M.  Lartiste,  who  had  talked  his  best  on  capi- 
tal punishment,  the  subject  in  which  he  ex- 
celled, was  answered  by  Mme.  de  la  Vau- 
draye  with  a  vigorous  parallel  between  the 
respective  merits  of  Victor  Hugo  and  La- 


MME.  DE  LA  VAUDRAYE'S     63 

martine,  which  parallel  was  duly  refuted  in 
a  lyrical  outburst  from  M.  Beaufrelant  on 
the  bulbs  of  the  double  dahlia. 

And  the  utmost  seriousness  presided  over 
all  this  incoherence,  each  disputant  con- 
founding, with  deadly  earnestness,  the  inter- 
locutor in  whom  he  saw  such  another  indom- 
itable as  himself.  And  the  dumb  circle  of 
hearers  listened  with  nods  and  grunts  of  ap- 
proval, as  though  these  strange  discussions 
had  excited  them  to  the  highest  pitch. 

"Well  .  .  .  and  you?"  said  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye  to  M.  Simare  the  elder,  at  the 
exact  moment  when  the  ardour  of  the  tour- 
ney seemed  about  to  wane.  "Are  you  not  in 
form  to-day?" 

M.  Simare,  the  anecdotist,  smiled.  His 
strong  point  lay  in  saying  nothing  until  he 
was  questioned;  and  his  dry  silence,  rich  in 
promise,  lent  enormous  value  to  the  one  an- 
ecdote to  which  he  treated  you  each  evening, 
after  carefully  preparing,  polishing,  repol- 
ishing  and  chipping  it  like  a  precious  stone. 


64     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

Everybody  burst  out  laughing  before  he 
even  opened  his  mouth:  it  was  understood 
from  his  manner  that  the  story  would  be  a 
little  .  .  .  naughty. 

He  said: 

"I  do  not  know  if  I  can  speak.  There  are 
young  ears  present." 

A  movement  on  the  part  of  the  mothers, 
a  glance;  and  the  five  young  ladies  disap- 
peared "without  seeming  to." 

He  insisted: 

"All  the  same,  I  feel  bound  to  warn  you 
that  it  is  a  very  risque  story.  I  shall  call 
a  spade  a  spade:  local  colour  demands 
it." 

"Go  on,  M.  Simare!"  said  somebody. 
"We  are  all  married  people  here!" 

Gilberte  was  sitting  in  the  front  row  of 
chairs,  understanding  nothing  of  the  depar- 
ture of  the  young  girls  nor  of  all  this  pream- 
able  and  in  absolute  ignorance  of  what  was 
looming  ahead. 

M.  Simare  walked  up  to  her,  bowed  to  her 


MME.  DE  LA  VAUDRAYE'S     65 

gallantly,  like  a  bull-fighter  dedicating  his 
next  feat  of  prowess  to  the  most  prominent 
person  present  and  sat  down  four  feet  in 
front  of  her.     And  he  began : 

"The  setting  first,  madame.  Picture  the 
skirt  of  a  wood :  dramatis  personce,  Fanchon 
and  her  friend  Colin,  who  is  whispering 
sweet  nothings  in  her  ear,  very  much  in  her 
ear,  and  .  .  .  but  wait!  At  no  great  dis- 
tance, in  the  middle  of  the  wood,  his  rever- 
ence the  rector  is  strolling,  reading  his  bre- 
viary; and  his  walk  takes  him  in  the  direction 
of  our  young  rustics.  .  .  .  He  comes.  .  .  . 
He  comes  nearer  and  nearer.  .  .  .  Do  you 
see  the  picture,  madame?'* 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Gilberte,  earnestly,  like 
a  child  who  is  interested  in  a  fairy-tale. 
"What  next?" 

"The  sun  darts  his  rays  through  the 
branches,  from  the  patches  of  blue  sky.  ..." 

He  continued  his  description  at  length, 
talked  of  the  rector  and  the  birds  and  the 
flowers  and  the  cool  shade  of  the  trees ;  and. 


66     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

strange  to  say,  there  was  not  another  word 
about  Fanchon  and  Colin. 

"M.  Simare  is  a  httle  discursive  this  eve- 
ning," whispered  somebody.  "He  is  not 
coming  to  the  point  as  quickly  as  usual." 

In  fact,  he  was  veering  away  from  it,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  Gilberte,  who  listened 
eagerly  and  who  repeated,  at  intervals : 

"And  then?    What  next?" 

Thereupon,  he  got  more  and  more  entan- 
gled in  the  poetic  stroll  of  the  rector,  who 
kept  on  walking  and  never  seemed  to  come 
as  far  as  Fanchon  and  Colin.  And  it  was 
Gilberte  who,  at  last,  exclaimed : 
'  "But  what  became  of  Colin  and  Fan- 
chon?" 

Then  the  old  boy  made  a  decisive  gesture : 

"I  can't,  I  can't  tell  you.  .  .  .  No,  I 
won't  tell  you.  .  .  ." 

Everybody  rose.     Everybody  protested. 

M.  Simare  took  refuge  in  laughter: 

"Well,  no,  I  won't  tell  you." 

"But  why  not?" 


MME.  DE  LA  VAUDRAYE'S     67 

"Why  not?  I  don't  know !  It's  her  eyes. 
.  .  .  There  are  words  one  can't  utter  when 
one  looks  at  her,  there  are  things  one  can't 
tell." 

He  was  no  longer  laughing.  The  others 
were  silent.     And  he  continued : 

"Look  at  her  eyes.  They  gaze  at  you  so 
softly,  so  innocently.  *  .  .  All  the  time  that 
I  was  talking  my  nonsense,  I  wanted  to  in- 
vent something  for  her,  something  about 
saints  and  angels  and  a  good  little  girl  who 
loves  her  mother  and  only  thinks  of  pleas- 
ing her  and  is  happy  from  morning  till 
night.  .  .  .'* 


THE  SUITOES 

GiLBERTE  went  to  more  of  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye's  evenings :  not  that  she  liked  them 
much ;  but  she  did  not  wish  to  have  it  thought 
that  she  disliked  them. 

And  her  presence  delighted  all  the  fre- 
quenters of  the  salon,  the  most  cross-grained 
ladies  and  the  most  indifferent  men  alike. 
It  was  a  curious  influence  exercised  by  that 
mere  child;  and  she  owed  it  neither  to  her 
experience — for  what  did  she  know  of  life? — 
nor  to  her  tact — for  what  aim  had  she  in 
view? — but  to  an  inexplicable  charm  which 
affected  all  who  came  near  her  and  which,  at 
the  same  time,  protected  her  against  them. 
Her  innocence  was  a  greater  attraction  than 

any  subtlety  or  intellectual  charm  and  de- 
es 


THE  SUITORS  69 

fended  her  to  better  purpose  than  prudence 
would  have  done  or  cleverness. 

Old  Simare  was  mad  about  her.  Mme. 
Bottentuit  told  her  all  the  secrets  of  her 
home  life.  Mme.  Charmeron  confided  to 
her  that  she  was  broken-hearted  at  having 
nothing  but  daughters,  but  that  she  had  not 
given  up  hope  yet.  Mile,  du  Bocage  hid  her 
head  on  Gilberte's  shoulder,  wept  and  told 
her  all  her  old-maidenly  disappointments  and 
regrets. 

"You  are  the  ornament  of  my  salon,  Gil- 
berte,"  said  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye. 

She  was  not  jealous  of  her.  Gilberte, 
with  her  exquisite  compassion,  had  guessed 
that  the  former  lady  of  the  Logis  must  still 
suffer  from  the  ruin  of  her  fortunes,  must 
still  feel  how  stunted  and  narrow  was  her 
life ;  and  she  showed  her  more  attention  than 
she  did  to  any  other. 

Out  of  kindness  to  the  mother  she  even 
tried  to  win  the  son's  sympathies;  but  here 
she  encountered  a  medley  of  such  shyness 


70     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

and  rudeness,  so  unlovable  a  nature  and  so 
marked  a  determination  to  repel  her  ad- 
vances and  treat  her  as  he  treated  the  other 
frequenters  of  the  salon  that  Gilberte  was 
quite  discomfited. 

"Do  not  be  discouraged,"  said  the  mother. 
"He  is  a  little  unsociable;  but  he  is  so  full  of 
good  qualities." 

Nevertheless,  Gilberte  once  heard  her 
mutter  between  her  teeth : 

"What  a  bear  that  boy  is!" 

And  she  heard  on  all  sides  that  mother  and 
son  did  not  agree. 

The  salon  underwent  a  change.  There 
were  as  many  commonplaces  uttered  as  ever ; 
but  those  who  spoke  them  did  so  with  less 
smug  importance  than  before.  People  were 
less  sure  of  themselves.  The  talented  ama- 
teurs in  singing  and  piano-playing  sought 
for  shades  of  expression  and  feeling. 
Lastly,  the  order  of  the  concert  became  "sub- 
ject to  alterations"  and  the  performers  no 
longer  wore  the  air  of  automata  obeying  pre- 


THE  SUITORS  71 

destined  laws.  There  were  asides  in  the 
conversation;  people  talked  among  them- 
selves, for  the  pleasure  of  talking  and  in 
accordance  with  their  various  sympathies. 

One  evening,  Beaufrelant  drew  Gilberte 
into  a  corner  and  said : 

"I  am  mad,  madame,  do  you  hear?  I  am 
mad.  I  care  for  nothing,  I  am  indifferent 
to  my  flowers,  it  is  you  all  the  time.  I  am 
free:  my  name,  my  life  are  yours;  give  me 
some  hope.  .  .  ." 

The  next  day,  le  Hourteulx  made  his  dec- 
laration : 

"Life  has  become  a  burden  to  me.  If  you 
do  not  take  pity  on  me,  madame,  I  shall 
cease  to  exist.  .  .  .  But  I  can  hardly  believe 
that  you  will  reject  me.  ...  Do  you  dis- 
like me?  ...  I  am  a  widower  and  well-off, 
you  know.  ..." 

That  was  the  only  dark  spot  that  troubled 
Gilberte's  serenity :  the  more  or  less  discreet 
attentions  which  all  those  men  paid  her.  Si- 
mare  the  younger  went  far  more  cleverly  to 


72     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

work  and  tried  to  inspire  confidence  with  a 
pretence  of  delicacy  by  which  Gilberte  al- 
lowed herself  to  be  taken  in.  But  Beaufre- 
lant  and  Le  Hourteulx  showed  no  pity :  they 
pursued  her  relentlessly,  speaking  to  her,  not 
unnaturally,  as  to  a  woman  who  knows  what 
life  is  and  who  could  not  well  take  offence  at 
a  declaration  or  even  at  the  terms  in  which  it 
was  made. 

Poor  Gilberte  did  not  take  offence,  but  she 
was  very  much  surprised ;  and  the  sighs  and 
transports  of  those  two  men  of  forty  bored 
her  terribly.  She  avoided  them  and  she  also 
had  to  avoid  young  Lartiste,  who  tried  the 
effect  of  poetry  and  fired  the  most  passion- 
ate verses  of  Musset  and  Verlaine  at  her ;  the 
brother  too  of  the  Demoiselles  Bottentuit,  a 
schoolboy  who  was  only  let  out  on  Thurs- 
days and  Sundays  and  who,  the  third  time 
he  saw  her,  threatened  to  kill  himself  at  her 
feet ;  and  lastly  a  cousin  of  Mile,  du  Bocage, 
who  was  engaged  to  the  elder  Charmeron 


THE  SUITORS  78 

girl  and  who  offered  to  break  off  the  mar- 
riage and  abandon  a  very  good  match  if  it 
caused  her  the  faintest  annoyance. 

She  no  longer  enjoyed  at  the  Logis  the 
atmosphere  of  peace  and  isolation  so  dear  to 
her.  Adele  had  to  defend  the  door,  with  the 
vigilance  of  a  watch-dog,  against  the  daring 
suitors  who  tried  to  obtain  admission  to  her 
mistress  upon  some  pretext: 

"Madame  is  at  home  to  nobody;  I  have 
positive  instructions." 

The  old  servant  saw  through  the  disguise 
of  M.  le  Hourteulx,  who  appeared  dressed 
up  as  a  beggar,  and  of  Beaufrelant,  who,  in 
cap  and  blouse,  came  round  with  a  green- 
grocer's barrow. 

Gilberte  could  not  go  for  a  stroll  in  her 
garden  without  seeing  the  figure  of  one  or 
other  of  those  importunate  gentlemen  on  the 
right,  in  the  next  garden  which  ran  from  the 
castle  down  to  the  river.  At  nightfall,  she 
was  conscious  of  shadowy  forms  prowling 


74     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

round  the  manor-house.  She  felt  herself 
spied  upon  on  every  side,  stalked  like  a  beast 
of  the  chase. 

It  was  Easter  Sunday.  After  dinner, 
Adele  and  her  husband  went  to  the  fair,  just 
outside  the  town.     Gilberte  was  left  alone. 

It  had  been  raining;  and  the  fresh  smell  of 
wet  leaves  and  moist  earth  came  through  the 
open  window  of  the  boudoir  which  she  had 
made  into  her  study.  The  book  which  she 
was  reading  in  an  absent-minded  way 
dropped  to  her  lap  and  she  sat  dreaming, 
with  her  gaze  lost  in  the  blackness  of  the 
trees.  And,  quite  without  reason — for  the 
least  sound  would  have  struck  her  ear — she 
was  overcome  with  an  indescribable  sense  of 
dread,  which  increased  from  moment  to  mo- 
ment. The  silence  seemed  to  her  unnatural 
and  awful.  The  darkness  was  heavy  with 
menace;  and  she  could  not  take  her  eyes 
from  it,  sat  spellbound  by  the  unknown  peril 
which  she  felt  was  there. 


THE  SUITORS  76 

A  recollection  doubled  her  fears.  On  the 
evening  before  at  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye's,  a 
turn  in  the  conversation  had  led  her  to  say 
that  her  servants  were  going  to  this  fair.  So 
they  knew  that  she  was  all  alone  at  the  Logis. 

Her  one  thought  was  to  close  the  window, 
fasten  down  the  shutters  and  place  an  obsta- 
cle between  herself  and  the  snares  that  were 
being  laid  for  her  in  the  threatening  dark- 
ness; and  yet  she  dared  not  stir,  as  though 
the  least  movement  would  have  exposed  her 
to  immediate  dangers.  ...  But  what  dan- 
gers? 

She  made  an  effort  and  rose  from  her 
chair.  At  the  same  moment,  a  head  ap- 
peared and  a  man  strode  across  the  balcony 
and  sprang  into  the  room.     It  was  Simare. 

The  revulsion  of  feeling  was  such  that  she 
almost  felt  inclined  to  laugh.  Wearily,  she 
sat  down  and  murmured : 

"Oh,  monsieur,  you  ought  not  to  have 
done  this  I  ...  I  should  never  have  thought 
it  of  you.  .  .  ." 


76     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

He  flung  himself  on  his  knees : 

"Do  not  judge  me  unheard.  ...  I  am 
not  master  of  myself.  ...  I  have  to  go 
away  for  a  month  .  .  .  and  I  wanted  to  see 
you  ...  to  tell  you  what  I  feel,  what  I 
suffer.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  your 
indifference  has  tortured  me.  .  .  .  My  sad- 
ness, my  admiration,  my  hopes,  my  emotion, 
when  in  your  presence :  you  have  understood 
none  of  these  .  .  .  but  then  you  never  do 
understand.  ...  At  this  very  moment, 
when  I  am  here,  at  your  knees,  when  I  am 
imploring  you,  when  I  am  proclaiming  my 
sorrow  and  my  obsession,  I  feel  that  my 
words  do  not  reach  you.  And  yet  they 
must.  You  must,  you  shall  know  what  I 
have  to  say  to  you.  .  .  .  Listen  to  me.  .  .  .*' 

But  Gilberte  would  not  listen.  Although 
her  extreme  innocence  had  preserved  her  at 
first  contact  with  the  world,  nevertheless  she 
was  beginning  to  see  a  glimmer  of  the  mean- 
ing of  many  things ;  and  she  was  frightened 
of  the  words  that  were  coming.     No,  she 


THE  SUITORS  77 

would  not  hear  them  from  the  lips  of  this 
man,  she  would  not  allow  this  man  to  be  the 
first  to  speak  them  in  her  ear.  She  had  a 
sudden  intuition  of  their  importance  and 
their  sweetness  and  their  magic;  and  she  felt 
that  it  was  almost  a  contamination  to  hear 
them. 

She  entreated  him : 

"Be  quiet.  ...  I  shall  be  so  grateful  if 
you  will.  ..." 

"No,  no,"  he  cried,  "I  must  speak.  Ever 
since  I  have  known  you,  the  words  I  have 
to  say  have  been  on  my  lips,  suffocating 
me.  .  .  .  Gilberte,  Gilberte,  I  .  .  ." 

She  gave  a  desperate  glance,  the  glance  of 
a  victim  which  does  not  know  how  to  defend 
itself  and  awaits  the  blow  that  is  about  to 
fall.     He  stammered: 

"Oh,  your  eyes  .  .  .  your  eyes  .  .  .  !" 

He  remained  on  his  knees,  humble  and  un- 
decided, and  repeated,  in  a  low  voice : 

"Your  eyes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  my  father  told 
me  .  .  .  child's  eyes  that  put  one  off  .  .  ." 


78     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

He  rose  and  struck  his  fist  upon  the  table : 

"No,  after  all,  I  will  not  allow  myself  to 
be  thwarted.  I  mean  to  speak  and  I  shall 
speak.  ...  If  your  eyes  prevent  me,  well, 
I  sha'n't  see  your  eyes !" 

He  went  to  the  lamp  and,  with  a  sudden 
movement,  put  it  out. 

Gilberte  gave  a  scream.  She  tried  to  run 
away,  stumbled  over  a  chair  and  fell.  She 
tried  to  call  out;  and  her  voice  died  away  in 
her  throat. 

Then,  powerless,  she  stirred  no  more. 

He  seized  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

She  made  a  weak  attempt  to  release  her- 
self, but  strength  failed  her. 

She  said,  simply: 

"Please,  monsieur  ...  I  have  never  done 
you  any  harm.  ...  I  have  always  been  kind 
to  you.  .  .  .  Please.  .  .  ." 

His  hand  slacked  its  grasp.  They  re- 
mained opposite  each  other.  What  was  he 
going  to  say  to  her?  At  her  wits'  end,  with 
her  heart  wildly  beating,  she  tried,  through 


THE  SUITORS  79 

the  darkness,  through  the  great,  impenetra- 
ble silence  that  enshrouded  the  two  of  them, 
to  see  Simare's  face,  to  read  his  tumultuous 
thoughts,  his  will.  ...  A  few  seconds 
passed.  ... 

Then  he  said: 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  ...  I  am  a  scoun- 
drel. ...  I  wanted  to  force  you  to  take  my 
name,  to  share  my  existence.  ...  It  was 
cowardly  and  base  of  me.  .  .  .  Still,  there 
was  more  in  me,  believe  me,  than  wicked  de- 
signs. .  .  .  Oh,  I  hear  your  heart  beating 
.  .  .  do  not  tremble!  .  .  .  You  will  never 
be  in  danger  from  any  one  ...  it  is  not 
only  your  eyes  that  protect  you :  there  is  the 
sound  of  your  voice,  there  is  your  silence, 
there  is  the  air  you  breathe,  your  mere  pres- 
ence. .  .  .  Forgive  me.  .  .  ." 

He  went  away.  She  dimly  saw  him  cross 
the  window-rail  and  presently  heard  the 
sound  of  his  steps  as  he  walked  down  the 
gravel-path  in  the  garden. 

Gilberte  rushed  to  the  door.     She  could 


80     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

not  have  stayed  for  another  instant  in  the 
solitude  of  that  room. 

It  was  an  intolerable  agony,  of  which  she 
felt  the  grip  even  more  now  that  Simare  was 
no  longer  there.  Where  should  she  go? 
To  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye's?  She  remem- 
bered vaguely  that  it  was  not  one  of  her 
"evenings,"  because  of  the  fair.  No  matter. 
She  wanted  people,  lights,  bustle,  men  and 
women  in  whose  presence  she  could  master 
her  fears  and  pluck  up  courage. 

She  ran  to  her  bedroom,  put  on  her  hat 
and  cloak.  .  .  .  But  no,  she  dared  not  go 
out.  .  .  . 

A  noise  came  from  the  square  in  front  of 
the  Logis,  on  the  town  side;  the  noise  of  an 
altercation,  of  a  struggle.  She  drew  back 
the  curtains.  Two  men  were  fighting  under 
her  windows.  In  her  fright,  she  flew  to  the 
bolt,  locked  herself  in  and  crouched  down  in 
the  furthest  corner  of  her  room.  Her  in- 
stinct, her  weakness  impelled  her  to  hide  her- 
self, to  know  nothing  of  what  was  happen- 


THE  SUITORS  81 

ing,  to  wait.  .  .  .  But  the  din  increased. 
There  were  shouts  and  moans. 

Then  she  was  ashamed  of  her  cowardice. 
It  was  impossible  for  her  to  continue  in  that 
nervous  inactivity.  She  wanted  to  inter- 
fere, to  help,  if  there  were  still  time. 
Bravely,  she  opened  the  door,  went  down  the 
stairs,  walked  out  into  the  square  and  up  to 
the  combatants. 

By  the  hght  of  the  lamp  she  recognized 
Beaufrelant  and  Le  Hourteulx. 

Rolling  on  the  ground,  covered  with  mud, 
hatless,  their  clothes  all  disarranged,  they 
were  fighting  with  a  sort  of  mad  rage,  with 
the  stubbornness  of  two  mortal  enemies  re- 
joicing in  an  opportunity  of  vengeance  long 
deferred.  They  struck  at  each  other  in 
turns,  collared  each  other,  bashed  each 
other's  faces  with  their  fists,  wrestled  vio- 
lently. And  this  amid  insults  and  exclama- 
tions of  triumph; 

"Here,  you  villain,  take  that  I" 

"One  for  your 


82     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

"Ah,  my  fine  fellow,  you  caught  it  this 
time!     How  did  that  strike  you?" 

And  they  called  Gilberte  to  witness,  like 
the  queen  of  a  tournament  in  whose  honour 
two  of  her  knights  were  breaking  a  lance : 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  madame?" 

"Got  in  there  with  my  left,  madame !" 

"Ah,  he  was  looking  out  for  you,  the 
scoundrel!" 

"Oh,  you  blackguard,  you  were  prowling 
round  her  house!" 

Abandoning  all  attempts  at  interference, 
she  turned  to  move  away.  They  rose  with 
difficulty  and  followed  her,  each  hustling  his 
rival  as  he  went  on  trying  to  get  rid  of  him. 
But  the  heat  of  the  struggle  brought  them 
to  the  ground  again ;  and  she  ran  away. 

The  first  street  to  which  her  steps  led  her 
came  out  in  front  of  the  church.  The  La 
Vaudrayes'  house  was  close  by ;  and  she  has- 
tened to  it. 

No  one  answered  when  she  rang  the  bell. 
Still,  there  was  a  light  in  the  drawing-room. 


THE  SUITORS  88 

She  tapped  at  one  of  the  windows.     Some 

one  came  to  the  door.     It  was  Guillamne  de 

la  Vaudraye. 

"You,  madamel"  he  exclaimed. 
"Where's  your  mother?    Where's  your 

mother?"  she  panted. 

"My  mother  is  at  Caen,  on  business ;  I  am 

alone  in  the  house." 

She  walked  to  the  drawing-room  unstead- 
ily and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"What   is   the   matter?    Why   are   you 

here?" 

She  whispered,  in  a  broken  voice : 

"They    came.  .  .  .  They    are    following 

me.  ...  I  am  frightened  of  them.  .  .  ." 
"Simare,   was   it?  .  .  .  And   Le    Hour- 

teulx,       I       suppose  .  .  .  and       Beaufre- 

lant.  .  .  ." 

"Yes  ...  so  I  daren't  go  back.  .  .  ." 
"But  Adele  .  .  .  and  her  husband?" 
"Gone  to  the  fair."  "" 

He  thought  for  a  moment  and  said : 
*'I  will  go  and  fetch  them.     It's  some  way 


84     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

off.  Take  a  rest  until  we  come:  you  need 
it." 

Gilberte,  utterly  exhausted,  fell  asleep. 

Adele  woke  her.  There  was  a  taxi  waiting 
for  her.  Guillaume  did  not  show  himself 
again. 


VI 

A  NEW   FRIEND 

Two  days  later  Domfront  could  not  be- 
lieve its  ears  when  it  heard  that  all  relations 
had  been  broken  off  between  the  La  Vau- 
drayes  on  the  one  hand  and  Beauf  relant  and 
Le  Hourteulx  on  the  other.  The  two  no 
longer  formed  part  of  the  salon. 

"Oh,  nonsense!  Beauf  relant  and  Le 
Hourteulx,  who  have  been  there  longer  than 
anybody,  who  date  back  to  the  days  when 
the  La  Vaudrayes  saw  their  friends  at  the 
Logis:  it's  impossible!" 

"It's  quite  true,  for  all  that.  I  heard  it 
from  Mme.  Duval,  who  is  constantly  at  all 
three  houses;  and  she  saw  the  letters  which 
Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  wrote." 

"Well,  you  can  say  what  you  please,  but 

85 


86     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

it*s  a  great  pity.  M.  le  Hourteulx:  such  a 
fine  voice  I  And  M.  Beaufrelant:  such  a 
brillant  talker!  And  have  you  heard  the 
reason  ?" 

"No,  I  can't  imagine.  ...  If  I  hear  the 
least  thing,  I'll  let  you  know." 

Gilberte  was  very  much  vexed  when  Adele 
told  her  what  had  happened.  She  had  no 
doubt  that  Guillaume  de  la  Vaudraye  had 
told  his  mother  what  he  knew  of  the  incident 
and  she  was  distressed  at  being  the  cause  of 
disagreement,  complication  and  gossip. 

"Perhaps,"  she  thought,  "all  this  would 
not  have  come  about  if  I  had  not  been  looked 
upon  as  married." 

And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  seemed,  as  a 
married  woman,  to  be  exposed  to  unpleas- 
antness which  she  would  have  escaped  in  the 
position  of  a  girl.  Instead  of  the  quiet 
which  she  had  sought,  she  found,  in  the  men's 
behaviour,  in  their  conversation,  in  their  way 
of  looking  at  her,  in  the  persistency  of  their 
pursuit,  a  host  of  disturbing  little  annoy- 


A  NEW  FRIEND  87 

ances  which  might  well  have  troubled  a  mind 
less  innocent  than  hers. 

She  went  to  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye,  in  the 
afternoon,  and  begged  her  to  reconsider  her 
decision. 

"It  is  no  use  asking  me,"  cried  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye.  "I  admit  that,  in  writing  to 
those  two  gentlemen,  I  did  no  more  than  mj^ 
duty;  but  it  was  my  son  who  pointed  out  to 
me  how  imperative  that  duty  was." 

She  was  in  a  bad  temper  and,  when  all  is 
said,  with  reason.  No  mistress  of  a  house 
lightly  gives  up  two  individuals  of  the  un- 
doubted merit  of  M.  Beaufrelant  and  M.  le 
Hourteulx.     She  called  out : 

"Guillaume,  Mme.  Armand  wants  to  talk 
to  you!" 

And,  when  her  son  entered  the  room,  she 
went  out. 

Gilberte,  who  was  always  frightened  by 
Guillaume's  obvious  coldness  and  his  exces- 
sive rejerve,  blushed  as  she  made  her  request. 
Ought  so  much  importance  to  be  attached  to 


88     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

an  incident  which  the  two  gentlemen  surely 
regretted  and  at  which  she  could  only  laugh  ? 

"My  mother  and  I  have  no  right  to  laugh 
at  it,"  he  said.  "We  are  responsible  for  all 
the  people  whom  we  introduce  to  you.  If 
one  of  them  treats  you  with  disrespect,  we 
must  not  expose  you  to  meeting  him  here." 

"But  how  have  they  treated  me  with  dis- 
respect? ...  I  assure  you,  I  don't  see 
it.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  her,  turned  away  his  head 
and  said,  in  a  voice  so  abrupt  that  she  could 
not  make  out  whether  his  answer  was  full  of 
contemptuous  pity  or  affectionate  admira- 
tion: 

"It  is  the  others,  it  is  all  of  us  who  must 
see  for  you.  .  .  .  How  can  you  be  expected 
to  see  those  things?" 

He  paused  and  continued : 

"Are  you  very  anxious  to  have  those  two 
boors  back  here?" 

"For  your  mother's  sake,  yes.  I  feel  that 
the  situation  grieves  her." 


A  NEW  FRIEND  89 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  exclaimed,  with  cut- 
ting irony,  "they  are  the  two  finest  orna- 
ments of  her  salon!  How  will  the  others  do 
without  them?  How  will  they  manage  to 
rattle  out  the  regulation  tomfoolery?  Will 
they  ever  be  able  to  reach  the  required  level 
of  absurdity,  affectation,  stupidity  and  nar- 
rowness? Heavens,  if  we  were  a  shade  less 
dull  and  less  inane,  what  a  catastrophe!" 

"It*s  not  right  of  you  to  talk  like  that, 
monsieur,"  said  Gilberte. 

"What!"  he  said,  taken  aback. 

"No,  you  ought  not  to  laugh  at  what  is  a 
great  pleasure  to  your  mother.  If  some  of 
her  friends  are  a  little  eccentric,  it  is  not  for 
you  to  remark  upon  it." 

He  rose,  began  to  walk  excitedly  up  and 
down  the  room  and  then,  gradually  master- 
ing himself,  came  and  sat  opposite  Gilberte 
again  and  said: 

"You  are  right,  madame.  Besides,  among 
all  those  people  whom  I  cannot  help  criti- 
cizing, I  have  never  heard  you  speak  any  but 


90     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

sensible,  judicious,  intelligent  words,  admi- 
rable for  their  kindness  and  wisdom.  You 
always  answer  their  most  ridiculous  ques- 
tions as  though  they  had  asked  you  about  the 
most  interesting  things  in  life.  One  word 
from  you  brings  order  and  lucidity  into  the 
most  absurd  conversations." 

It  was  no  longer  the  same  voice.  Usually 
so  hard  and  dictatorial,  it  had  become  hum- 
ble and  grave.  And  his  face,  which  was 
generally  severe,  bore  an  expression  of  infi- 
nite gentleness.  One  was  no  longer  con- 
scious of  acrimony,  constraint  or  distrust, 
but  of  the  frank  unreserve  of  a  pent-up  na- 
ture and  of  subdued  melancholy. 

Which  of  the  two  was  the  real  Guillaume? 
Gilberte  did  not  even  ask  herself  the  ques- 
tion, was  only  too  happy  to  believe  at  once  in 
the  more  attractive  of  the  two  images  pre- 
sented to  her.  And  so  she  smiled  upon  this 
second  Guillaume  and  said : 

"Then  .  .  .  those  gentlemen  .  .  .  ?" 

"Your   two   proteges    shall   resume    the 


A  NEW  FRIEND  91 

places  which  they  fill  so  well.  I  insist,  how- 
ever, on  a  temporary  exclusion  as  a  punish- 
ment; for  it  is  a  punishment  to  Le  Hour- 
teulx  and  Beaufrelant.  After  that,  if  they 
are  very  good  ..." 

"And  you  will  be  pleasant  to  them?" 

"To  them  and  to  the  others,  at  least  as 
pleasant  as  I  can." 

"Is  it  so  very  difficult?" 

"Extremely!  I  can't  help  it:  I  do  not 
suffer  fools  gladly;  they  make  me  irritable 
and  unjust.     I  have  not  your  charity." 

"It  only  needs  a  little  indulgence ;  think  of 
your  mother." 

"Oh,  my  mother,  my  mother  I" 

There  was  something  sorrowful  and  harsh 
about  this  exclamation  that  struck  Gilberte. 
She  kept  silence  from  a  sense  of  delicacy. 
But  Guillaume  was  passing  through  one  of 
those  periods  when  it  is  a  relief  to  the  over- 
burdened soul  to  confess  its  troubles : 

"Have  my  mother  and  I  ever  understood 
each  other?    We  have  not  an  idea  in  com- 


92     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

mon.  Her  wants  are  not  mine,  nor  are  mine 
hers.  She  offends  all  my  tastes  as  I  offend 
all  hers.  If  I  display  so  much  bitterness 
against  the  merry-andrews  who  perform  in 
her  salon,  it  is  because  of  her.  I  hate  to  see 
her  countenancing  their  grimaces  and  pos- 
turings." 

She  said  nothing.     He  asked : 

"You  blame  me  for  it,  don't  you?  Yes, 
yes,  I  feel  it.  .  .  .  And  how  strange :  in  your 
presence,  I  too  think  that  I  am  wrong  and, 
while  I  was  saying  those  things,  I  blushed  as 
if  I  had  uttered  ugly  thoughts!" 

She  laughed : 

"They  were  not  very  pretty  ones." 

"Never  mind,  I  prefer  you  to  know  them. 
I  do  not  wish  to  trick  you  into  liking  me.  If 
I  ever  win  your  esteem,  I  want  to  do  so  with- 
out hypocrisy,  without  trying  to  hide  my 
faults  from  you." 

No  one  had  ever  spoken  to  Gilberte  with 
such  seriousness  and  deference.  She  felt 
quite  touched  and,  with  a  spontaneous  move- 


A  NEW  FRIEND  93 

ment,   held   out   her   hand   to    Guillaume: 
"We  shall  be  friends,"  she  said.     "I  am 
sure  that  we  shall  be  friends." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  raising  her  small, 
gloved  hand  to  his  lips,  but  he  restrained 
himself.     And  she  went  on : 

"So  this  is  the  unsociable  Guillaume  de  la 
Vaudraye !  Will  you  believe  that  you  quite 
frightened  me  with  your  surly  ways?  You 
did  indeed!" 

After  this  interview,  Gilberte  did  two  or 
three  errands  and  returned  to  the  Logis.  It 
was  drawing  towards  evening.  She  made 
for  the  summer-house  and  saw  her  dream- 
companion  in  the  distance.  She  said  to  him, 
as  though  he  could  hear  her  and  as  though 
she  felt  bound  to  tell  him  the  good  news  with- 
out delay : 

"You  know,  I  have  a  new  friend!" 

And  Gilberte  saw  nothing  extraordinary 

in  this  sudden  friendship,  based  upon  the 

exchange  of  a  few  sentences.    Was  she  not 

one  of  those  unsophisticated  beings  who  al- 


94     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

ways  obey  the  unreflecting  impulse  of  their 
hearts,  who  look  you  straight  in  the  eyes  and 
who  do  not  think  it  out  of  place  to  tell  people 
how  they  feel  towards  them? 

And  so,  the  next  evening,  she  went  to 
Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye's,  quite  happy  at  the 
thought  of  seeing  her  new  friend  again.  A 
disappointment  awaited  her:  Guillaume  did 
not  appear. 

She  went  back  next  day.  Guillaume 
came  down  to  the  drawing-room,  bowed  to 
her  and  seemed  to  take  no  further  notice  of 
her  presence. 

Thereupon,  on  the  third  day,  while  the 
others  were  listening  to  Mile,  du  Bocage  and 
M.  Lartiste  the  elder  in  the  duet  from  Mi- 
reille,  Gilberte,  finding  that  Guillaume  was 
alone  in  the  next  room,  went  out  to  him. 
She  at  once  saw  that  he  tried  to  avoid  her. 
Realizing  this  to  be  impossible,  he  gave  a 
gesture  of  vexation  and  crossed  his  arms  in 
an  indifferent  attitude. 

"What  about  your  promise?"  she  asked, 


A  NEW  FRIEND  95 

playfully,  but  a  little  sadly.  "You  prom- 
ised to  make  yourself  pleasant  to  your  ene- 
mies in  the  salon;  and  this  is  the  best  you 
can  dol  Am  I  not  entitled  to  complain? 
Did  we  not  shake  hands  as  friends?" 

He  uncrossed  his  arms  and  his  expression 
changed.  Once  again  she  felt  the  relaxation 
of  a  tense  will,  the  immediate  suppression  of 
all  resistance  in  this  silent  man  whose  square 
chin  and  inflexible  eyes  bore  witness  to  his 
obstinacy. 

"Goodl"  she  said.  "Capital!  But  you 
still  look  a  little  fierce.  .  .  .  That's  bet- 
terl  .  .  .  And  now,  come  along." 

He  stopped  her: 

"Do  not  ask  too  much  of  me.  You  are  so 
far  above  ordinary  life,  so  inaccessible,  that 
you  can  mix  with  those  people  and  remain 
serene  and  untouched.  I  could  only  do  so 
at  the  risk  of  deteriorating.  One  must  make 
allowance  for  different  temperaments.  I 
shall  be  polite,  that's  all." 

Then  she  stayed  and  they  talked. 


96     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

Often,  after  that,  Gilberte  had  to  go  to 
him  and  open,  as  she  said,  the  door  of  his 
prison-house,  unbind  his  hands  and  dehver 
his  captive  soul.  But  she  did  it  so  easily 
that  it  amused  them  both. 

"You  have  but  to  lift  your  little  finger," 
Guillaume  would  say,  "to  bring  down  the 
prison- walls." 

Under  this  uneven  and  rugged  husk,  Gil- 
berte discovered  the  most  exquisite  and  deli- 
cate of  natures,  a  poet's  nature  that  was 
galled  by  all  its  surroundings,  a  child's  na- 
ture that  his  mother  had  kept  in  to  the  verge 
of  pain.  And  it  was  often  from  the  point  of 
view  of  a  child  that  Gilberte  was  glad  to  be 
with  him.  They  would  laugh  at  the  least 
thing,  with  that  childish  laughter,  which  is 
so  good  just  because  it  has  no  excuse  except 
our  need  of  laughter.  They  longed  to  run 
and  skip  and  play. 

"Oh  dear,  how  young  I  am!"  Guillaume 
would  exclaim. 


A  NEW  FRIEND  97 

"I  shall  be  two  next  year,"  Gilberte  de- 
clared. 

They  could  be  serious  also.  She  asked 
him  about  his  writing,  wanted  to  read  what 
he  had  printed.  He  refused,  on  the  pretext 
that  he  was  not  satisfied.  Nevertheless,  he 
showed  her  a  letter  from  the  editor  of  an 
important  review,  a  letter  teeming  with  com- 
pliments. 

He  lent  her  his  favorite  books  and  she 
devoured  them. 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  was  in  ecstasies. 
She  was  now  certain  that  her  dream  would 
be  realized.  She  was  too  clever  to  betray 
her  delight  and  hid  it  under  demonstrations 
of  gratitude : 

"How  sweet  of  you,  my  dear  Gilberte,  to 
tame  that  wild  savage!  You  will  make 
quite  a  courtier  of  him." 

And  she  added,  with  a  sigh : 

"Oh,  if  you  could  only  turn  him  into  a 
more   attentive   son   and  make  him  more 


98     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

grateful  to  his  mother  for  all  the  sacri- 
fices she  has  made  for  him!" 

The  discord  between  Mme.  de  la  Vaud- 
raye  and  Guillaume  was  Gilberte's  greatest 
grief.  Her  love  of  harmony  prompted  her 
to  make  continual  endeavours  at  reconcilia- 
tion which  were  bound  to  fail  as  much  be- 
cause of  the  mother's  arid  artificiality  as  of 
the  son's  stubbornness  and  reserve. 

She  had  to  give  up  the  attempt. 

But  she  suffered  another  pain,  arising 
from  her  extreme  sensitiveness:  at  the  close 
of  day,  she  could  no  longer  go  to  the  ruined 
summer-house  without  a  certain  sense  of  dis- 
comfort. Her  unknown  friend  was  faith- 
ful to  the  daily  tryst  which  they  had  made 
with  their  dreams ;  and,  though  Gilberte  her- 
self never  failed  to  keep  it,  she  felt  as  though 
she  had  done  him  some  wrong.  With  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  distant  mountains  melting 
into  the  deep  blue  of  the  heavens,  she  let 
herself  drift  into  vague  reveries,  far,  very  far 
away  from  the  homely  valley  where  her  first 


A  NEW  FRIEND  99 

friend  patiently  waited  for  her  thoughts  to 
return  to  him.  It  was  at  such  times,  when 
the  darkness  overtook  her  amidst  this  de- 
hghtful  torpor,  that  she  seemed  to  be  coming 
back  from  a  long  journey.  She  was  almost 
angry  with  herself.  But  why?  She  could 
not  have  said. 

One  day,  at  five  o'clock,  as  she  was  going 
down  to  her  garden,  she  received  a  note  from 
Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye. 

"My  deak  Gilberte, 

"Guillaume  and  I  are  going  for  a  stroll  in 
the  Forest  of  Andaine.  It  is  such  a  fine 
evening:  do  come  with  us.'* 

Should  she  go?  To  do  so  meant  a  break 
in  sweet  custom  that  had  lent  such  charm  to 
the  most  oppressive  hours  of  her  life,  meant 
throwing  over  the  constant  friendship  of  the 
bad  days. 

She  wavered  and,  wavering,  went  up  to 
her  room,  put  on  her  tilings,  went  out  and 
knocked  at  the  La  Vaudrayes'  door. 


100     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

Whatever  regrets  may  have  lingered  in 
her  conscientious  mind  were  very  soon  dis- 
pelled by  the  pleasm*e  which  the  walk  gave 
her  from  the  start.  Spring  was  trying  her 
hand,  at  the  tips  of  the  branches,  with  tiny 
pale-green  leaves  and,  along  the  roadsides 
and  ditches,  with  those  charming  early  flow- 
ers which  are  so  dear  to  us :  anemones,  peri- 
winkles, primroses,  wild  hyacinths,  lilies  of 
the  valley.  .  .  .  Arched  lanes  sped  into  the 
depths  of  the  woods.  Sweet  scents,  songs 
and  colours  played  and  mingled  in  all  the 
gladness  of  new-born  nature. 

They  walked  without  speaking.  Some- 
times, Guillaume  and  Gilberte  would  point 
out  to  each  other,  with  a  glance,  a  corner  of 
the  landscape,  or  the  outline  of  a  tree,  or  the 
glint  of  a  ray  of  sunshine,  both  wishing  the 
other  to  share  their  delight  and  admiration. 

They  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  pool  whose 
waters  slumbered  amidst  a  circle  of  old  pines 
that  joined  their  arms  around  them  as 
though  to  dance  a  moveless  measure.     It 


A  NEW  FRIEND  101 

was  one  of  those  abodes  of  silence  that  open 
only  in  the  hearts  of  old  forests.  Those  who 
are  brought  there  by  chance  and  who  grasp 
the  fitness  of  things  are  themselves  silent. 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  exclaimed : 

"On  the  first  fine  Sunday,  we  must  make 
up  a  party  and  come  here.  It  is  a  lovely 
spot  for  a  picnic.     What  do  you  say?" 

They  did  not  reply.     She  continued : 

"Every  one  will  bring  his  own  provisions. 
Of  course,  Mme.  Charmeron  will  make  her 
famous  spiced  beef  and  Mile,  du  Bocage  her 
prune-tart.  And,  at  dessert,  everybody 
must  come  out  with  a  set  of  verses !" 

Guillaume  hurled  a  pebble  violently  into 
the  mirror  of  the  water. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  asked 
Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye. 

He  sprang  up  and  confronted  her,  an- 
grily, impatiently,  with  tense  wrists.  But, 
as  he  was  about  to  speak,  he  met  Gilberte's 
eyes,  sad  and  full  of  entreaty.  He  seemed 
quite  dazed,  his  lips  trembled  and  suddenly 


102     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

he  took  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  in  his  arms 
and  began  to  kiss  her  with  all  his  might,  with 
all  his  fervent  soul.     And  he  blurted  out : 

"It's  quite  right  .  .  .  you're  my  mother 
.  .  .  you're  my  mother  .  .  .  you're  entitled 
to  say  what  you  please.  .  .  .  What  you  say 
is  right.  .  .  .  It's  my  business  to  under- 
stand. .  .  .  Oh,  mother,  if  you  only 
knew  ...  1" 


VII 

gilberte's  two  friends 

GiLBERTE  did  not  go  to  the  summer-house 
again.  A  feeling  of  delicacy  kept  her  away. 
Nevertheless,  each  day,  at  the  accustomed 
hour,  something  like  a  light  cloud  passed 
over  her  mind;  and  she  was  not  far  from 
accusing  herself  of  ingratitude. 

What  was  but  a  vague  remorse  towards  a 
friend  whom  she  had  never  known  took  a 
more  definite  shape,  in  another  sense,  with 
regard  to  him  whom  she  now  saw  almost 
daily.  She  would  so  much  have  liked  to 
offer  him  a  brand-new  friendship  and  to  feel 
the  excitement  of  it  for  the  first  timet 
True,  there  was  no  struggle  between  two 
sentiments,  since  one  was  so  far-off  and 
vague,  the  other  so  vivid  and  distinct.  And 
yet  .  .  . 

103 


104     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

There  are  childish  conflicts  which  would 
not  even  ripple  the  most  scrupulous  soul,  but 
which  form  the  mighty  storms  of  peaceful 
and  innocent  consciences  such  as  Gilberte's. 

But  all  this  took  place  deep  down  within 
herself,  unconsciously,  so  to  speak,  and  could 
not  diminish  her  magical  delight  in  living. 
For  magic  it  was,  something  that  ap- 
proached a  miracle,  when  she  compared  the 
gloom  of  the  past  with  the  dazzling  life  of 
the  present.  Whence  did  she  derive  the  joy 
with  which  she  thrilled  at  her  awakening; 
the  enthusiasm  that  swept  her  at  the  sight  of 
a  flower,  of  a  landscape,  of  any  spectacle  a 
hundred  times  witnessed  and  never  fully 
seen;  that  exaltation  of  thought,  those  sud- 
den blushes,  that  inexplicable  torpor  of  her 
whole  being  and,  at  the  same  time,  that  un- 
changeable serenity  which  doubled  the  un- 
certainty of  her  life  with  strength,  faith,  pa- 
tience and  certainty? 

There  was  no  allusion  to  the  incident  in 


GILBERTE'S  TWO  FRIENDS     105 

the  Forest  of  Andaine.  But,  from  that  time 
onward,  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  looked  upon 
her  son  in  a  different  fashion;  and,  in  the 
same  way,  in  her  conduct  towards  Gilberte, 
there  was  something  that  had  hitherto  been 
lacking :  a  touch  of  respect. 

Guillaume  said  to  Gilberte : 

"You  are  a  regular  fairy,  no,  more  than  a 
fairy,  for  you  exercise  your  power  without 
knowing  or  trying.  To  do  good,  to  disarm 
hatred,  to  heal  wounds,  to  make  others  want 
to  be  indulgent  and  kind,  you  have  no  need 
even  to  wish.  You  have  only  to  be  as  you 
are;  and  everything  around  you  grows  no- 
bler and  better." 

She  listened  and  smiled.  From  him  she 
accepted  praise  without  blushing.  He 
could  have  praised  her  beauty  and  enumer- 
ated all  her  charms  without  causing  her  to 
lower  her  eyes.  He  could  not  wound  her 
maidenly  modesty. 

One  morning,  following  upon  a  day  when 


106     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

Gilberte  had  not  been  to  Mme.  de  la  Vaud- 
raye's,  Adele  came  back  from  the  town  all 
out  of  breath: 

"Oh,  ma'am,  here's  a  nice  to  do!  Yester- 
day, at  Mme.  de  la  Vaudr aye's  evening, 
young  M.  Simare  .  .  ." 

"I  thought  he  was  away,"  said  Gilberte, 
interrupting  her. 

"He  is  back;  and,  last  evening,  he  and  M. 
Guillaume,  during  the  duet  from  Mireille, 
had  some  words  in  a  corner  .  .  .  they  were 
heard  quarrelling.  ...  It  seems  that  the 
elder  M.  Simare  told  a  story  that  wasn't 
quite  proper  and  M.  Guillaume  went  for  the 
son  about  it." 

"Oh,  it's  all  my  fault!"  said  Gilberte  to 
herself,  feeling  certain  that  Guillaume  had 
taken  the  first  opportunity  to  bring  about  a 
rupture. 

And  she  asked ; 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes.  Mme.  Duval  saw  two  officers  ring- 
ing at  the  Simares'  house  just  now  and  she 


GILBERTE'S  TWO  FRIENDS     107 

says  that  M.  Guillaume  has  ordered  the  lan- 
dau from  the  hotel  for  presently  .  .  .  but 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

Though  she  did  not  foresee  the  possible 
consequences  of  an  altercation  between  the 
two  young  men,  Gilberte  was  convinced  that 
no  interference  on  her  part  would  settle 
things,  as  it  had  done  with  M.  le  Hourteulx 
and  M.  Beaufrelant.  Guillaume  would  not 
consent  to  have  M.  Simare  admitted  to  the 
house  again.  The  father  would  side  with  his 
son.  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  would  be  furi- 
ous at  losing  two  of  her  regular  visitors.  In 
short,  it  meant  a  whole  series  of  bothers  and 
quarrels,  of  which  Gilberte  would  have  been 
the  real  cause. 

She  was  very  low-spirited  at  lunch.  A 
presentiment  of  danger  depressed  her,  but 
she  could  not  have  said  of  what  sort  it  was 
nor  whom  it  threatened. 

Her  suffering  must  have  been  genuine  to 
induce  her  to  rise  suddenly,  go  out  and  turn 
her  steps  towards  the  La  Vaudrayes'  house. 


108     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

But  what  she  was  doing  must  also  have 
seemed  to  her  very  useless  and  very  serious 
to  make  her  stop  suddenly,  with  frightened 
hesitation.  How  was  she  to  act?  Whom 
was  she  to  influence?  What  events  was  she 
to  avert? 

The  church  was  near  and  she  went  in. 
But  she  was  unable  to  pray;  and  her  anx- 
iety became  all  the  more  painful  inasmuch  as 
she  did  not  know  its  reason.  Then,  rather 
than  return  to  the  Logis,  where  inactivity 
would  have  been  intolerable,  she  went  along 
the  high-road  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley, 
followed  the  Varenne  for  a  short  distance 
and  then  climbed  up  towards  the  Haute- 
Chapelle. 

At  three  o'clock,  feeling  a  little  tired,  she 
made  for  the  shade  on  the  skirt  of  a  little 
wood  and  sat  down.  Slie  had  hardly  left  the 
road  when  the  hotel  landau  passed  and 
turned  down  the  forest-lane.  Was  Guil- 
laume  in  it? 

A  sound  of  harness-bells,  the  crack  of  a 


GILBERTE'S  TWO  FRIENDS     109 

whip  told  her  that  another  carriage  was  on 
its  way.  A  break  came  dashing  along,  car- 
rying Simare  and  a  couple  of  officers,  and 
disappeared  down  the  same  lane. 

For  a  second,  Gilberte  stood  breathless  at 
a  horrible  thought.  She  would  not,  no,  she 
would  not  have  it!  Then,  suddenly,  she 
began  to  run  at  full  speed.  A  cross-roads 
brought  her  to  a  stop  forthwith.  Which  of 
the  three  roads  should  she  take? 

She  chose  the  one  on  the  right,  but,  after 
running  fifty  yards,  went  back  to  the  middle 
one  and  then  to  the  one  on  the  left.  After 
that,  she  roamed  at  random,  beating  the 
copses,  hunting  on  the  grass  for  the  marks 
of  carriage-wheels,  flinging  herself  among 
the  ferns,  listening  and  looking  with  all  her 
nerves  on  edge.  .  .  . 

A  shot  .  .  .  and  a  second,  at  almost  the 
same  moment  .  .  .  close  by.  .  .  . 

She  gave  a  scream  and  fell  to  the  ground. 

A  few  minutes  passed.  As  though  in  a 
dream,  she  saw,  through  the  branches,  the 


110     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

two  carriages  driving  by.  Then  voices 
sounded : 

"I  assure  you,  doctor,  I  am  not  mistaken. 
It  was  a  woman  screaming." 

She  had  not  the  strength  to  raise  her  eye- 
lids or  speak;  but  she  felt  that  two  men 
were  coming  towards  her.  One  of  them  bent 
over  her  and  took  her  hand: 

"It's  nothing.     She  has  only  fainted." 

"In  that  case,  doctor,  don't  wait,"  said 
the  other  voice.     "I  will  see  her  home." 

The  mist  in  which  she  was  struggling 
lifted  slowly.  She  perceived  the  smell  of 
the  earth  on  which  she  lay.  She  made  an 
effort  to  throw  off  the  feeling  of  sleep  that 
numbed  her  and  she  opened  her  eyes.  Guil- 
laume  was  standing  before  her. 

"You,  you?"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  how 
glad  I  am!     And  M.  Simare?" 

"He's  not  hurt  either." 

"That's  a  good  thing." 

There  was  a  pause;  and  then  she  asked: 

"Why  did  you  do  it?     It  was  not  right.'* 


GILBERTE'S  TWO  FRIENDS     111 

"I  lost  my  head,  when  he  spoke  to  me  last 
night,  and  I  yielded  to  an  irresistible  im- 
pulse of  hatred.  I  did  not  know  what  I  was 
doing." 

"But  your  mother?" 

"I  have  managed  to  hide  the  truth  from 
her  so  far.  One  of  my  seconds  said  that  he 
would  tell  her." 

"Go  to  her,  run  as  fast  as  you  can.  .  .  . 
She  will  be  so  anxious  until  she  sees  you. 
.  .  .  Go  at  once.  .  .  ." 

"No." 

He  was  so  firm  that  she  despaired  of  per- 
suading him.  And  yet  she  wanted  him  to 
go.     Then  she  looked  at  him  and  smiled: 

"To  please  me,"  she  said. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "but  you  must  come 
too." 

She  at  once  summoned  her  pluck  and  rose 
to  her  feet ;  and,  when  she  expressed  her  wish 
to  get  back  without  delay  he  led  her  through 
the  short  cuts  where  there  was  hardly  room 
to  walk  side  by  side.     But  their  pace  slack- 


112     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

ened  at  once;  and  they  stopped  three  times 
to  rest  on  the  road.  Gilberte  no  longer  dis- 
played any  hurry.  What  did  they  say? 
Nothing  but  insignificant  words,  which  they 
did  not  remember  afterwards.  Neverthe- 
less, when  uttering  them,  they  felt  that  they 
had  never  been  interested  in  weightier  mat- 
ters. What  importance  could  suddenly 
have  attached,  in  the  course  of  a  walk,  to  the 
sight  of  two  initials  interlaced  on  the  bark 
of  a  tree,  or  to  the  flight  of  a  bird,  or  to  a 
stone  rolling  down  a  slope!  Whereas,  to 
them,  these  were  so  many  astounding  inci- 
dents that  deserved  a  stop  and  the  inter- 
change of  a  few  ecstatic  words. 

A  contest  between  some  ipsect  and  a  squad 
of  five  ants  that  were  trying  to  drag  it  away 
kept  them  for  quite  a  long  time.  Who 
would  be  the  victor?  Gilberte  took  pity  on 
the  insect  and  saved  it  when  it  was  on 
the  point  of  falling  in  the  fray.  Guillaume 
exclaimed,  in  accents  of  profound  convic- 
tion: 


GILBERTE'S  TWO  FRIENDS     113 

*'You  are  the  most  generous-hearted  crea- 
ture I  have  ever  met." 

Guillaume  compared  the  moss  at  the  foot 
of  an  oak  to  velvet;  and  Gilberte  became 
aware  that  all  the  poetry  in  the  world  was 
summed  up  in  her  companion. 

Having  exhausted  their  original  reflex- 
ions, their  brilliant  remarks  and  their  mu- 
tual admiration,  they  were  silent  until  they 
emerged  from  the  wood.  A  lane  of  apple- 
trees  led  them  past  furze  and  rocks.  At 
the  foot  of  the  slope  ran  the  Varenne. 
After  they  had  taken  a  turn,  Gilberte  cried : 

"Look,  that  might  be  my  garden,  on  the 
other  side.  .  .  .  Why,  so  it  is  I  .  .  .  There's 
the  Logis.  .  .  .  Where  are  we?" 

She  walked  on.  They  came  to  a  cluster 
of  small  fir-trees.  When  they  had  passed 
them,  they  were  just  opposite  the  ruined 
summer-house,  with  only  the  width  of  the 
valley  in  between. 

Gilberte  gave  a  start.  That  spur  of  the 
hill,  that  circle  of  red  rocks  surrounding  it. 


114     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

that  cluster  of  firs:  was  this  not  the 
spot  where  the  unknown  stranger,  for 
months  .  .  .  ? 

A  flood  of  contradictory  feelings  welled 
up  within  her :  feelings  of  gratitude  towards 
the  invisible  friend,  feelings  of  confusion 
towards  the  actual  friend,  memories  of  the 
dear  past  and  visions  of  the  present.  How 
she  wished  that  she  had  not  come  to  this 
place  with  Guillaumel  She  felt  inclined  to 
exclaim: 

"Go  away  I     Go  away !" 

But,  on  turning  her  head,  she  was  stupe- 
fied at  the  sight  of  his  pallor  and  the  change 
in  his  face: 

"What's  the  matter?  Why  don't  you  say 
something?     Speak  to  me  I" 

She  broke  off.  A  sudden  thought  struck 
her,  an  improbable,  but  madly  delightful 
idea.  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  his,  looked  down 
into  his  very  soul;  and  the  truth  appeared 
to  her  so  clearly  that,  leaning  against  the  side 
of  the  rock,  she  gasped: 


GILBERTE'S  TWO  FRIENDS     115 

"It  was  you  all  the  time  I  ...  It  was 
youl  .  .  ." 

Not  for  a  moment  did  the  shadow  of  a 
fear  that  she  was  mistaken,  cross  her.  Hold- 
ing her  head  between  her  hands  and  closing 
her  eyes,  she  took  refuge  in  her  happiness  as 
in  an  inaccessible  dwelling  from  which  not 
even  he  could  have  driven  her. 

He  was  speaking  now,  kneeling  before 
her ;  and  it  seemed  to  Gilberte  as  though  two 
voices  were  joined  in  that  one  voice  of  en- 
treaty, as  though  the  unknown  friend  were 
joining  his  prayer  to  Guillaume's,  blending 
his  image  with  Guillaume's,  mingling  with 
him  and  beseeching  her  with  the  same  hands, 
adoring  her  with  the  same  heart : 

"Gilberte,  it  was  the  day  on  which  you  ar- 
rived at  Domfront.  You  were  in  the  public 
gardens,  near  the  ruins,  and  I  saw  you  raise 
your  mourning-veil.  Since  that  day,  my 
life  has  been  wrapped  up  in  yours.  When 
you  went  over  the  Logis  with  my  mother,  I 
was  there,  hiding  behind  a  curtain.     You 


116     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

stopped  close  by  me,  I  was  able  to  take  you 
in  my  eyes,  to  lock  you  in  my  breast  like  a 
treasure ;  I  heard  your  voice,  I  breathed  your 
fragrance  and  I  lived  on  that  memory  for 
weeks,  seeking  you,  calling  you,  hovering 
round  the  Logis,  hoping  for  a  chance  meet- 
ing. Oh,  the  delight  of  it  when  I  saw  you 
from  here,  one  afternoon,  and  when  you 
came  back  next  day  and  every  day,  every 
day !  I  was  not  sure,  but  it  appeared  to  me 
that  you  saw  me  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  .  that 
it  was  just  a  little  because  of  me  that  you 
came  back." 

"I  saw  you,  yes,  I  saw  you,"  said  Gilberte, 
without  removing  her  clasped  hands  from 
her  face. 

He  asked: 

"Are  you  crying?" 

"I  am  so  happy  I" 

"Happy?" 

"Yes,  happy  because  it  was  you." 

"Gilberte,"  he  begged,  "I  would  give 
worlds  to  see  your  tears." 


GILBERTE'S  TWO  FRIENDS     117 

She  showed  her  dear  face  all  wet  with 
tears,  all  smiling  with  tears.     He  whispered : 

"I  love  you." 

She  seemed  surprised  and  repeated, 
gravely : 

"You  love  me  .  .  .  you  love  me  .  .  ." 

He  watched  her  anxiously.  But  the 
bright  features  lit  up  anew  and  she  said  to 
Guillaume,  gaily  and  blithely,  as  though  she 
had  made  the  most  wonderful  and  unex- 
pected of  discoveries: 

"But,  you  know,  Guillaume,  I  love  you 
too." 

She  had  the  look  of  a  delighted  child. 
She  could  have  clapped  her  hands,  so  great 
was  the  enchantment  of  that  magnificent 
vision  of  love,  so  sweet  was  it  to  know  that 
she  loved  and  was  loved. 

She  leant  over  to  him  prettily: 

"Then  you  are  the  one  I  was  loving  all 
the  time  and  it  is  you  that  I  love,  Guil- 
laume?" 

"Gilberte  .  .  .  please  .  .  ." 


118     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

"What  do  you  want?  Tell  me  what  you 
want,  Guillaume." 

"Your  eyes,  Gilberte,  to  kiss  your  inno- 
cent eyes,  your  eyes  which  are  like  the  eyes 
of  a  little  girl." 

Closing  the  lids,  she  offered  her  eyes,  as 
though  it  were  a  quite  natural  thing.  He 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  drew  her  to  him. 
But  a  shiver  passed  through  her  at  once. 
She  made  an  instinctive  movement  of  re- 
sistance and  moaned : 

"No  ...  no  ...  oh,  please  don't  I  .  .  ." 

She  was  not  laughing  now.  A  blush  cov- 
ered her  cheeks  and  forehead.  She  no 
longer  dared  look  at  him;  and  Guillaume's 
eyes  almost  hurt  her.  This  time,  it  was  the 
real,  perturbing,  mysterious  revelation  of 
love.     Shaken  with  emotion,  she  faltered : 

"Go  away  .  .  .  please  go  away  .  .  ." 

He  kissed  the  hem  of  her  skirt,  picked 
some  leaves,  some  blades  of  grass  that  Gil- 
berte's  feet  had  trodden  and  went  away. 


VIII 

the  appointment 

"Gilberte: 

"I  must  not  see  you  again.  When  you 
read  these  lines,  I  shall  have  left  Domfront. 
You  are  rich  and  I  am  poor:  you  need  look 
for  no  other  explanation  of  my  departure 
and  of  my  conduct  in  the  past.  I  loved  you 
from  the  first;  and  from  the  first  I  swore 
that  I  would  shun  you  and  for  ever  conceal 
the  feeling  with  which  you  inspire  me. 

"Do  you  now  understand  why  I  behaved 
so  coldly  to  you  from  the  beginning,  though 
my  heart  throbbed  at  the  mere  sound  of  your 
voice;  why  I  was  so  hard  to  my  mother, 
whose  plans  were  obvious  to  all  and  drove 
me  to  exasperation:  I  was  afraid  lest  you 
should  think  that  I  was  privy  to  them ;  why 
I  kept  in  the  background,  hiding  among 

119 


120     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

those  rocks,  looking  at  you  from  a  distance 
as  at  a  goal  which  I  knew  was,  and  wished  it 
to  be,  inaccessible? 

"But  you  came  to  me,  Gilberte:  that  is 
all  my  excuse.  You  came  to  me  out  of  kind- 
ness to  my  mother,  perhaps  also  prompted 
by  that  instinct  which  makes  us  conscious  of 
love  where  it  lies  deepest.  What  could  I  do 
against  your  fascination?  I  did  not  even 
struggle.  I  closed  my  eyes  to  all  that  was 
not  you,  you  and  your  beauty  and  your  smile 
and  your  charming  gi'ace  and  the  colour 
of  your  hair  and  the  freshness  of  your  cheeks 
and  the  rhythm  of  your  footsteps ;  and,  with 
not  a  further  thought  of  my  oath  or  the  in- 
evitable consequences  of  my  weakness,  I  ac- 
cepted the  infinite  joy  that  came  to  me.  Oh, 
Gilberte,  those  few  weeks!  .  .  .  But  there 
was  something  which  I  had  never  imagined 
in  my  boldest  dreams :  you  loved  me,  you  also 
loved  me. 

"You  love  me,  which  means  that  happi- 
ness is  within  my  reach  to-morrow,  the  next 


THE  APPOINTMENT        121 

day,  every  day.  It  is  there,  I  have  but  to 
take  it ;  a  word  from  me  and  you  are  my  wife. 
For  I  know  you,  my  beloved:  the  gift  of 
your  heart  is  the  gift  of  your  entire  life. 

"And  so  I  must  go,  if  I  would  not  be  over- 
come by  temptation  .  .  . 

"Oh,  Gilberte,  you  do  not  know  what  I 
am  feeling  and  suffering,  you  who  do  not 
know  what  you  are,  you  who  are  all  that  is 
most  human  and  most  divine,  most  noble 
and  most  simple,  a  miracle  of  harmony,  at- 
tractiveness and  light.  But  you  know  noth- 
ing of  yourself  and  will  never  know  any- 
thing. One  could  tell  you  and  your  mirror 
could  teach  you  all  the  perfections  of  your 
face  and  form ;  and  yet  you  would  not  know 
them.  Were  you  a  child  of  ten,  wearing  the 
white  frock  of  your  first  communion,  I 
should  proclaim  my  admiration  with  the 
same  frankness  and  with  no  greater  fear  of 
hurting  your  modesty.  The  whole  world 
might  be  at  your  feet,  chanting  your  praises ; 
and  you  would  be  none  the  less  humble. 


122     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

That  is  the  marvel  of  your  ingenuous  na- 
ture. All  is  merged  in  your  purity,  as  in  a 
great,  limpid  sea  in  which  every  impurity 
would  vanish.  It  is  impossible  to  think  of 
you  without  evoking  images  of  whiteness, 
of  transparency,  of  crystal  water.  By 
what  mystery  has  it  come  that  the  trials  of 
life,  the  realities  of  marriage  have  not  soiled 
the  freshness  of  your  innocent  eyes  ? 

"And  so  I  shall  never  see  your  eyes  again : 
your  eyes  of  the  dawn,  your  eyes  fresh  as 
the  dew,  your  kind,  ignorant,  gentle  eyes, 
so  fond,  so  gay,  so  sad  .  .  ." 

She  lowered  her  head,  overcome  with  emo- 
tion. Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye,  who  had 
brought  her  this  letter  from  her  son  and  who 
waited  for  her  to  finish  reading  it,  said, 
rather  aggressively: 

"I  should  be  glad  of  a  word  of  explana- 
tion, Gilberte.  Yesterday,  my  son  fights  a 
duel  without  any  adequate  cause.  To-day, 
he  leaves  me,  without  giving  me  any  reason. 


THE  APPOINTMENT        123 

Have  these  two  incidents  anything  to  do 
with  you?  You  must  admit  their  serious- 
ness to  a  mother." 

Gilberte  handed  her  the  letter.  Mme.  de 
la  Vaudraye  read  it  and  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders : 

"Are  you  so  very  rich?" 

The  girl  gave  her  another  letter,  re- 
ceived that  morning,  in  which  the  Dieppe 
solicitor  furnished  her  with  her  quarterly 
statement.     Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  started: 

"Impossible!  Oh,  my  child,  you  must 
never  let  Guillaume  know!" 

"How  can  I  ?     He  has  gone  away  I" 

"And  you  sit  there  and  say  that  so 
quietly!  Doesn't  his  going  distress  you? 
Don't  you  love  him?" 

"Yes,  I  love  him." 

"Then  write  to  him." 

"Write  to  him?" 

"Yes,  tell  him  to  come  back  .  .  .  tell  him 
that  his  position  makes  no  difference  to 
you  .  .  ." 


124     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

She  spoke  with  a  certain  embarrassment; 
and  this  made  Gilberte  feel  awkward. 
However,  she  said: 

"I  can't  write.  Guillaume  alone  can 
solve  the  question  that  lies  between  him  and 
his  conscience." 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  gave  an  impatient 
gesture  and  cried: 

"You  can't  write  I  What  a  ridiculous 
scruple !  Is  it  any  worse  to  write  to  a  young 
man  than  to  go  walking  about  the  country 
with  him,  as  I  hear  you  did  yesterday? 
What  I  My  son  fights  a  duel  because  of  you, 
he  leaves  me  because  of  you;  and,  when  I, 
his  mother,  ask  you  .  .  .  !  Well,  what's 
the  matter?  What  are  you  looking  at  me 
like  that  for?" 

A  chair  suddenly  pushed  aside,  an  over- 
turned flower-vase  bore  evidence  to  Mme. 
de  la  Vaudraye's  burst  of  irritation.  She 
flew  out  again: 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  all  very  well,  but  one  can't 
stand    that    eternal    gentleness    of    yours! 


THE  APPOINTMENT         125 

Here  am  I,  telling  you  how  wrong  you  are, 
and  you  listen  in  such  a  queer  way  that  I 
end  by  putting  myself  in  the  wrong.  One 
always  feels  with  you  as  though  one  were  in 
front  of  an  indulgent  judge,  who  graciously 
forgives  one's  faults.  And  yet  it's  you  who 
are  at  fault!" 

"Why,  of  course!"  said  Gilberte,  all  con- 
fusion. 

"Then  why  do  I  look  like  a  prisoner  being 
judged?" 

"Oh,  but  you  don't!" 

"Yes,  I  do.  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to 
bend  your  head  and  all  very  well  for  me  to 
rave  and  yell:  any  one  would  think  that  I 
was  to  blame  and  that  you  were  making  al- 
lowances. You  must  admit,  it  is  enough 
to  make  one  lose  all  patience." 

Presumably,  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  was 
afraid  of  growing  still  more  impatient,  for 
she  went  away  without  another  word. 

Gilberte  called  on  her,  next  day,  and 
kissed  her  affectionately.     There  was  not  a 


126     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

word  said  about  their  difference  of  the  day 
before. 

They  saw  each  other  every  day.  Accord- 
ing to  the  weather,  they  walked  in  the  town 
or  walked  about  the  neighbourhood,  leaning 
on  each  other's  arm  and  heedless  of  any  but 
themselves.  But  they  invariably  returned 
at  the  same  hour. 

"Ah,  it's  five  o'clock:  here  are  the  ladies 
coming  backl"  people  said. 

This  regularity  was  due  to  Gilberte.  As 
soon  as  she  was  free,  she  went  to  the  ruined 
summer-house  and  sat  there  until  dinner- 
time. 

"But  why  this  hurry?"  asked  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye.  "You  never  give  me  a  minute 
over." 

"And  what  about  my  daily  appointment?" 
said  Gilberte,  laughing. 

"Your  appointment?" 

"Why,  yes,  with  your  son:  what  would  he 
think  of  me  if  I  were  not  punctual?" 

In  the  course  of  a  longer  excursion  than 


THE  APPOINTMENT        127 

usual,  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye,  who  was  fond 
of  turning  the  conversation  on  her  past 
greatness,  pointed  out  the  limits  of  the  prop- 
erty once  possessed  by  her  ancestors.  They 
extended  along  both  banks  of  the  Varenne, 
as  far  as  the  spot  where  it  joined  the  An- 
dainette. 

"To  say  nothing  of  what  we  owned  on  the 
forest  side :  the  Revolution  robbed  us  of  that. 
Why,  on  the  death  of  my  father,  the  whole 
of  the  valley  still  belonged  to  us  I  My  mar- 
riage-portion included  everything  down  to 
the  Bas-Moulin.  And  you  should  have  seen 
the  Logis  in  those  days!  Such  furniture  I 
Such  works  of  art!" 

Gilberte,  to  humour  her,  asked : 

"And  how  did  you  lose  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  a  long  story,  a  heap  of  mysteri- 
ous business-schemes  in  which  my  poor  hus- 
band, a  decent  man,  if  ever  there  was  one, 
allowed  himself  to  be  robbed  by  a  company- 
promoter  called  Despriol.  You  remember 
that  empty  house,   near  Notre-Dame-sur- 


128    THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

I'Eau,  which  took  your  fancy  yesterday,  I 
don't  quite  know  why?  Well,  that's  where 
Despriol  and  his  wife  lived,  up  to  fifteen 
years  ago.  Henriette  Despriol  was  a 
charming  woman;  she  and  I  were  great 
friends;  and  she  used  to  come  to  the  Logis 
when  she  liked  .  .  ♦  so  did  her  husband,  for 
M.  de  la  Vaudraye  was  never  happy  out  of 
his  sight;  and  I  did  not  dream  of  suspecting 
him,  for  he  struck  me  as  a  good-natured,  hon- 
est man  and  M.  de  la  Vaudraye  was  careful 
to  hide  from  me  the  dangerous  speculations 
into  which  his  evil  genius  was  dragging  him. 
Everything  was  discovered  in  an  hour. 
Despriol  took  to  flight,  after  losing,  or  rather 
steahng,  all  that  remained  to  us.  We  were 
ruined." 

She  paused  and  then  continued: 
"There's  worse  than  that.  On  the  same 
evening,  my  dear  friend  Henriette  came  and 
flung  herself  on  her  knees  before  me  and  im- 
plored me  to  give  her  money  to  join  her  hus- 
band, who  was  in  concealment  in  the  neigh- 


THE  APPOINTMENT        129 

bourhood,  and  to  enable  them  to  leave  the 
country  and  retrieve  their  fortunes.  It  was 
a  piece  of  brazen  impudence;  and  I  showed 
her  the  door.  Unfortunately,  I  left  her 
alone,  for  a  moment,  in  my  bedroom.  An 
hour  after,  I  saw  that  a  box  containing  all 
my  jewels  had  disappeared.  We  rushed  to 
her  house:  she  was  gone." 

"Did  you  prosecute  them?" 

"We  notified  the  police,  but  they  were 
never  found.  Five  years  ago,  I  received  a 
letter  from  Henriette  in  which  she  said,  'The 
ten  thousand  francs  which  my  husband  sent 
you  this  morning  represent  the  value  of  the 
jewels.  It  is  the  first  money  which  we  have 
been  able  to  put  by.  I  am  longing  for  the 
day  when  we  shall  be  in  a  position  to  settle 
with  you  altogether  and  when  I  shall  have 
the  right  to  beg  your  forgiveness  for  all  the 
harm  that  we  have  done  you.  Until  that 
day  comes  there  will  be  no  rest  for  your 
repentant  friend." 

"And  since  then  .  .  .?" 


130     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

"Since  then,  I  have  received  another  let- 
ter, a  few  months  ago,  in  which  she  told  me 
that  her  husband  was  dead  and  that  she  was 
on  her  way  to  me  with  all  the  money  she 
owed  me." 

"WeU?" 

"Nothing  but  lies!  Nobody  came.  Do 
people  like  that  come  and  pay  back  the 
money  they  have  stolen!  No,  they  were  a 
couple  of  thieves.  You  ask  anybody  at 
Domfront  about  M.  and  Mme.  Despriol:  a 
nice  reputation  they  left  behind  them!  If 
either  of  them  thought  of  coming  back  here, 
they'd  be  stoned  in  the  streets!  Henriette 
indeed!  Why,  I  should  spit  in  her  face, 
that  I  would,  the  sneak,  the  hypocrite!  .  .  ." 

She  uttered  those  words  with  an  accent  of 
implacable  hatred  charged  with  all  the  ran- 
cour of  those  fifteen  years  of  poverty  and 
privation.  Gilberte  shuddered.  The  evil 
expression  on  that  face  filled  her  with  a  sort 
of    repugnance.     Nevertheless,     she     took 


THE  APPOINTMENT        131 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye's  hand  and,  raising  it 
to  her  hps,  murmured: 

"You  poor  dear  I" 

And  she  did  this  not  designedly,  because 
it  was  Guillaume's  mother  whom  she  was 
conciliating,  but  from  an  undefined  and  all- 
powerful  instinct  that  compelled  her  to  be 
kind  to  this  humiliated  and  disappointed 
woman. 

It  was  the  same  instinct  which  had  guided 
her  hitherto  and  which  made  her  still  more 
attentive  and  affectionate  in  the  days  that 
followed,  notwithstanding  a  certain  sense 
of  constraint  which  she  felt  in  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye's  presence.  She  knew  no  greater 
pleasure  than  to  smooth  the  wrinkles  from 
those  sullen  features  at  the  moment  when 
they  were  most  firmly  set ;  and  to  do  this  she 
employed  all  sorts  of  childish  rogueries : 

"Come,  try  hard  and  laugh.  .  .  .  There, 
you  have  laughed!" 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  was  touched  by  all 


132     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

this  charm  of  manner.  It  made  her  neglect 
the  artificial  plan  of  conduct  which  she  had 
arranged  to  captivate  the  girl:  she  forgot 
to  conceal  her  faults,  she  even  became  nat- 
ural and  spontaneous. 

One  day,  after  something  that  Gilberte 
had  said,  with  a  sudden  movement  she  drew 
the  girl  to  her : 

"Oh,  my  darling,  what  a  treasure  of  a 
wife  you  would  make  I" 

Gilberte  smiled: 

"Indeed  I  How  do  I  know  that  you  would 
have  me  for  a  daughter !  .  .  .  However,  we 
shall  soon  see  .  .  .  perhaps  to-morrow  .  .  ." 

"To-morrow?" 

"Why,  of  course !  Isn't  this  the  day  when 
Guillaume  is  coming  to  the  trysting-place 
where  I  wait  for  him  every  day?" 

"Guillaume  ?  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this 
morning  from  Paris.  Besides,  I  know  him: 
when  he  has  made  up  his  mind  .  .  ." 

Gilberte  looked  at  her  watch: 

"Five  o'clock.     Suppose  he  were  there 


THE  APPOINTMENT         138 

now!  .  .  .  Ah,  I  have  a  feeling  that  he  is 
there  to-day,  that  I  shall  see  himl  .  .  . 
Good-bye  till  to-morrow." 

She  hastened  away  swiftly,  leaving  her 
companion  speechless.  Hope  filled  her 
breast,  a  hope  each  time  disappointed,  but 
never  discouraged. 

"Mme.  Armand  is  coming  back  alone  this 
afternoon,"  said  the  people  at  Domfront. 
"What  a  hurry  she's  in!" 

She  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  Logis 
without  stopping  and  went  straight  to  the 
summer-house.  Her  eyes  longed  to  pierce 
the  screen  of  foliage  that  hid  the  hill  from 
sight.  She  had  not  a  doubt  that  he  was 
there;  and,  at  the  same  time,  she  felt  the 
madness  of  her  certainty. 

She  arrived.  Her  glance  at  once  swept 
the  rocks.     He  was  there. 

She  was  on  the  point  of  throwing  him 
handfuls  of  kisses,  or  else  of  kneeling  down 
and  stretching  out  her  arms  to  him  across 
space,  but  she  saw  him  running  down  the 


134.     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

slope  and  she  herself  started  running  to- 
wards him,  as  fast  as  she  could. 

She  arrived  all  out  of  breath  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden,  broke  down  the  little  wooden 
gate,  which  was  slow  in  opening,  and  sprang 
into  the  road  at  the  moment  when  Guillaume 
crossed  the  bridge : 

"Gilbertel" 

"Guillaume!" 

They  assured  themselves  with  a  glance 
that  nothing  was  changed  in  either  of  them 
and  then  silently  followed  the  road  that 
skirts  the  Varenne.  They  dared  not  speak, 
overcome  with  the  importance  of  the  words 
which  they  were  about  to  pronounce.  Be- 
sides, excitement  gripped  them  by  the 
throat. 

Thus  they  arrived  at  Notre-Dame-sur- 
I'Eau,  the  old  Norman  chapel  which  is  so 
prettily  situated  on  the  river-bank. 

Leaning  on  the  balustrade  above  the 
water  flowing  through  the  arches  of  the 
bridge,  they  revelled  in  the  delight  of  dream- 


THE  APPOINTMENT        135 

ing  side  by  side.     Then   Guillaume  said: 
"It  was  more  than  I  could  bear.     I  wanted 
to  see  you,  if  only  for  a  few  minutes  .  .  . 
and  to  gather  fresh  courage  ..." 

She  asked,  in  a  voice  that  did  not  sound 
like  her  own: 
"Then  .  .  .  you  are  going  back?  .  .  ." 
"I  intended  to  .  .  .  but  I  can't  now  .  .  . 
I  can't  now  .  .  ." 

He  continued,  almost  in  a  whisper : 
"It's  not  weakness.  But  I  am  seeing 
you;  and  to  see  you  is  to  see  things  and 
ideas  as  they  are.  You  flood  them  with  the 
light  which  is  in  j'^ou  and  which  springs  from 
you.  Yes,  I  tried  to  escape  the  temptation 
and  I  had  a  wild  desire  to  work  in  solitude, 
so  as  to  achieve  the  wealth  and  fame  that 
would  have  permitted  me  to  marry  you. 
And  now  .  .  .  and  now  I  see  that  it  is  all 
madness.  Why  suffer  uselessly?  Let  us 
struggle  together,  Gilberte.  I  can  do  noth- 
ing without  you  ...  I  am  too  much  in  love 
with  you." 


136     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

"And  your  scruples?"  she  asked,  mali- 
ciously. 

"What  do  wealth  and  poverty  matter? 
They  are  words  to  which  I  was  able  to  at- 
tach a  certain  value  when  away  from  you  in 
writing  to  you.  But,  when  I  am  near  you, 
it  seems  to  me  that  they  mean  nothing.  A 
man  has  no  right  to  order  his  life  by  such 
empty  phrases.  .  .  .  Oh,  Gilberte,  you  put 
everything  in  its  right  proportion,  you  are 
truth  itself,  your  love  gives  certainty  and 
peace!  Such  as  I  am,  I  am  worthy  of  you, 
because  you  love  me  .  .  ." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.     He  asked : 
"You  are  not  angry  with  me?" 
"For  going  away,  Guillaume?     No,  I  was 
so  sure  that  you  would  come  back!" 


IX 

AFFIANCED 

On  the  next  afternoon,  Adele  burst  into 
the  room  where  Gilberte  was  sitting  after 
lunch : 

"M'am,  there's  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  and 
her  son  turning  into  the  square.  Am  I  to 
let  them  in?" 

"Yes,  certainly,  I  am  expecting  them." 

"Then  it's  true  what  Mme.  Duval  says, 
that  you're  going  to  marry  M.  Guillaume, 
ma  am? 

"Well,  suppose  I  am?" 

"Oh,  as  far  as  M.  Guillaume's  concerned, 
I've  nothing  to  say!  But  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye  as  your  mother-in-law  I  If  you 
want  to  know,  ma'am,  I'd  rather  .  .  ." 

The  front-bell  rang;  and  she  went  to  the 
door  looking  very  cross. 

137 


138     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

Gilberte  shot  a  glance  at  the  glass  over 
the  mantel-piece,  pushed  a  curl  into  place 
and  nervously  made  a  change  in  the  flowers 
in  the  vases,  bunches  of  roses  which  she  had 
gathered  herself.  Adele  showed  in  the 
mother  and  son. 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  was  radiant.  A 
moment  before,  in  the  main  street,  the  mere 
sight  of  her  silk  dress,  her  ceremonious  walk 
and  her  triumphant  expression  must  have 
told  the  inhabitants  of  Domfront  the  exact 
nature  of  her  errand. 

She  entered  with  the  ease  of  one  who  ic 
quite  at  home.  Her  way  of  sitting  down 
showed  that  she  was  definitely  and  blissfully 
taking  possession.  There  was  none  of  the 
stiffness,  none  of  the  preliminarj'^  common- 
places that  usually  mark  this  sort  of  inter- 
view. Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  was  much  too 
eager  to  come  to  the  point: 

"My  dear  Gilberte,  I  wish  to  ask  your 
hand  for  my  son  Guillaume." 

All  their  love,  all  the  unspeakable  happi- 


AFFIANCED  139 

ness  of  their  souls,  all  their  gratitude,  all 
their  faith  in  the  future  was  contained  in 
the  glance  exchanged  by  Guillaume  and  Gil- 
berte.  Nothing  remained  of  the  irritation 
which  his  mother's  air  of  victory  caused  him, 
nothing  remained  of  the  anxiety  which  the 
other  felt  at  this  solemn  hour. 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  did  not  even  wait 
to  hear  the  answer. 

"First  of  all,  my  dear  child,  let  me  speak 
to  you  as  a  friend  and  as  a  woman  of  experi- 
ence, who  knows  only  too  well,  by  what  she 
herself  has  been  through,  that  happiness  in 
married  life  is  based  upon  material  prosper- 
ity. You  know,  don't  you,  how  Guillaume 
and  I  are  placed  as  regards  money  ?  On  the 
death  of  my  poor  husband  .  .  ." 

Guillaume  rose  and  walked  to  the  open 
window,  as  though  bored  beforehand  by  what 
was  coming.  Gilberte  felt  very  much  in- 
clined to  join  him  and  to  leave  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye  to  fight  out  with  herself  the  ques- 
tion of  the  material  prosperity  on  which 


140     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

married  bliss  is  based.  But  the  older 
woman's  imperious  eye  nailed  her  to  her 
chair ;  and,  nodding  her  head  at  intervals,  by 
way  of  assent,  she  had  to  listen  to  a  long 
speech  in  which  strange  phrases  like  sepa- 
rate and  common  property,  joint  estate  and 
settlements  kept  on  recurring. 

"That  will  do  nicely,"  she  said,  with  an  air 
of  deliberation,  though  she  did  not  under- 
stand a  single  word  of  what  was  said. 

"Are  we  agreed?" 

"Quite,  madame." 

"Well,  children,  kiss  each  other  and  bless 
you!" 

Guillaume  stepped  forward  and  his  out- 
stretched arms  closed  round  Gilberte.  He 
kissed  her  forehead,  kissed  her  eyes.  She 
released  herself,  blushing,  and  said: 

"It  is  my  first  kiss,  Guillaume." 

He  felt  a  momentary  bitterness: 

"Your  first  .  .  .  from  me." 

She  smiled: 

"A  girl  must  not  receive  a  kiss  from  any 


AFFIANCED  141 

but  the  man  she  is  engaged  to  .  .  .  and  are 
you  not  the  first,  the  only  one?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Gilberte?" 

"I  mean,  Guillaume,"  she  said,  in  accents 
throbbing  with  her  heart's  gladness,  "I 
mean  that  I  am  not  a  widow,  that  I  have 
never  been  married,  that  I  called  myself  a 
married  woman  in  the  hope  of  escaping  at- 
tention and  that  no  such  person  as  Mme. 
Armand  exists." 

Guillaume  was  trembling  with  emotion. 
He  understood,  yet  refused  to  admit  the 
truth,  so  great  would  have  been  the  anguish 
of  a  mistake: 

"No,  no,  I  dare  not  believe  it  .  .  .  you, 
a  girl,  unmarried!" 

"What  is  there  so  extraordinary  in  that?" 

"Oh,  Gilberte!" 

He  had  seized  her  hands  and  stood  gazing 
at  her  in  ecstasy. 

She  whispered: 

"I  was  sure  that  you  would  be  delighted." 

"It  is  something  more  than  delight.    You 


142     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

seem  to  me  even  more  beautiful  and  even 
more  innocent  and  sacred.  I  do  not  love 
you  anj^  better,  but  I  love  you  differently." 

And  he  continued : 

"Is  it  really  possible?  Is  there  no  one  in 
your  past?  Is  there  not  even  that  shadow 
on  my  happiness?" 

"My  whole  past  is  j^ou,  Guillaume." 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  came  up  to  them. 
They  had  forgotten  all  about  her;  and  her 
appearance  gave  them  an  impression  that 
was  all  the  more  painful  inasmuch  as  the 
sudden  gravity  of  her  features  was  in  direct 
contrast  with  their  own  rapture.  She  said 
to  Gilberte : 

*'If  Mme.  Armand  does  not  exist,  then 
whom  is  my  son  marrying?" 

"Well,  Gilberte  .  .  ." 

"Gilberte  whom?" 

"Gilberte  Me,"  replied  the  girl,  trying  to 
speak  playfully,  but  half-uneasy  at  heart. 

"Come,  child,  that's  not  enough.  You 
must  have  a  surname?  .  .  ." 


AFFIANCED  148 

"I  suppose  so  .  .  ." 

"What  was  your  father's  name?  Your 
mother's?" 

•'I  don't  know." 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  drew  herself  up  to 
the  full  length  of  her  angular  figure.  It 
was  as  though  she  were  learning  some  ter- 
rible event,  a  catastrophe.  Gilbert  caught 
sight  of  Guillaume's  pallor  and  suddenly  un- 
derstood what  she  had  never  even  half-real- 
ized, the  danger  of  her  irregular  position 
where  a  woman  like  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye 
was  concerned.     She  shook  with  terror. 

Guillaume  interposed  gently: 

"Don't  upset  yourself,  Gilberte.  I  need 
not  say  how  little  importance  I  attach  to  all 
this ;  but  mother  does  not  look  at  things  from 
my  point  of  view.     Let  us  hear  the  facts." 

Gilberte,  without  entering  into  details, 
told  of  the  death  of  her  mother,  the  loss  of 
the  family-papers  and  the  whole  chapter  of 
accidents  which  had  prevented  her  from 
penetrating  the  mystery  that   surrounded 


144     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

her.  As  she  went  on,  her  voice  lost  its  as- 
surance. All  this  story,  which,  until  then, 
she  had  simply  regarded  as  a  source  of  petty 
worries,  now,  under  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye's 
stern  eye,  appeared  to  her  the  abominable 
story  of  a  worthless  creature.  To  be  with- 
out a  name!  She  felt  as  much  ashamed  of 
herself  as  though  they  had  made  the  unex- 
pected discovery  that  she  had  an  ear  missing, 
or  a  piece  of  one  cheek.  And  yet,  in  the 
silence  that  followed  on  her  recital  she 
sought  in  vain  for  the  crime  which  she  had 
committed,  for  the  crime  of  which  she  was 
held  guilty. 

"Well,  mother,"  said  Guillaume,  "there's 
nothing  serious  in  that.'* 

"Nothing  serious  1"  sneered  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye. 

All  her  little  middle-class,  provincial  feel- 
ings were  outraged  by  this  unforeseen  revela- 
tion. The  pride  of  the  La  Vaudrayes  cried 
aloud  within  her.  What  would  people  say 
at  Domfront  if  a  La  Vaudraye  married  a 


AFFIANCED  145 

girl  without  a  name,  a  foundling,  an  adven- 
turess, in  fact!  She  pictured  the  tittletat- 
tle,  the  sidelong  allusions,  the  condolences 
with  which  she  would  be  overwhelmed. 

"My  poor  friend,  how  very  unpleasant  for 
you  I  ...  Of  course,  I  knew  there  was 
something  suspicious  about  her,  for,  after 
aU  .  .  ." 

And  they  would  say,  among  themselves: 
"No    name?    Nonsense!    When    people 
haven't  a  name,  it's  because  it's  to  their  in- 
terest not  to  have  one,  because  they  are  hid- 
ing their  real  name." 

She  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  put  it 
politely.     Bluntly,  she  declared: 

"The  marriage  is  out  of  the  question.  It 
will  not  take  place." 

Guillaume  protested  indignantly: 
"Out  of  the  question!     And  why,  pray?'* 
"Can't  you  see  that  for  yourself?    I'm 
surprised  at  your  asking!" 

"I  insist  on  knowing,  as  Gilberte's  affi- 
anced husband." 


146     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

"Gilberte's  husband!  People  don't 
marry  .  .  ." 

"Silence,  mother!" 

He  was  standing  before  her,  with  his  fea- 
tures convulsed.  Another  word  and  he 
would  have  closed  her  lips  by  mean  force. 
She  was  afraid  of  him.  He  went  on,  drop- 
ping his  voice: 

"You  are  right,  we  had  better  not  con- 
tinue this  explanation  in  her  presence.  Any 
words  other  than  words  of  veneration  I  look 
upon  as  an  insult  to  the  girl  I  love." 

He  pushed  her  towards  the  door  sternly. 
But  Gilberte  barred  their  road: 

"No,  Guillaume,  not  like  that.  ...  If  we 
must  part,  let  it  not  be  with  angry  words. 
...  I  love  both  of  you  too  well,  yes,  both 
of  you,  madame,"  she  declared,  in  the  voice 
that  no  one  could  resist. 

Her  gentleness  was  stronger  than  Guil- 
laume's  violence.  He  made  no  further 
movement.  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  allowed 
herself  to  be  led  back  into  the  room.     Gil- 


AFFIANCED  147 

berte  made  her  sit  down  and  knelt  beside 
her: 

"Act  as  your  conscience  tells  you,  but, 
please,  without  any  bitterness  against  me. 
.  .  .  Whatever  you  decide  to  do,  do  not  let 
me  lose  your  affection." 

There  may  have  been  a  sort  of  revenge  on 
Gilberte  in  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye's  unbend- 
ing attitude.  She  rejoiced  to  see  this  child, 
who  had  always  dominated  her  by  her  good- 
ness and  candour,  on  her  knees  before  her, 
while  she,  the  judge,  looked  down  from  her 
moral  pedestal  and  put  her  to  confusion  from 
the  heights  of  her  respectability. 

She  did  not  reply.     Gilberte  continued : 

"You  remember  our  walk,  a  little  while 
ago,  when  you  showed  me  the  former  boun- 
daries of  your  property.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
bought  it  all  up  .  .  .  in  order  to  give  it  back 
to  you.  I  hoped  to  bring  you  back  here, 
to  this  house  which  belongs  to  you.  Every- 
thing is  yours,  you  would  have  managed 
and  disposed  of  everything,  you  would  have 


148     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

been  the  absolute  mistress,  answerable  to 
no  one,  you  would  have  resumed  your 
proper  place  at  Domfront,  the  Logis  would 
have  become  what  it  used  to  be  .  .  ." 

A  gleam  flashed  through  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye's  eyes,  but  she  restrained  herself. 
The  same  inflexible  will  contracted  her  face 
into  a  hard  and  stiff  mask.  Coldly,  she 
said: 

"I  am  exceedingly  sorry  that  all  these  fine 
plans  cannot  be  realized,  but  it  is  not  my 
fault.  .  .  .  Make  enquiries.  .  .  .  Who  knows? 
.  .  .  Perhaps  you  will  succeed  in  finding 
out  the  indispensable  truth.'* 

Gilberte,  in  her  despair,  was  nearly  fling- 
ing her  arms  round  her  neck  and  saying : 

"Stay  here,  please.  ...  Be  to  me  the 
mother  whom  I  have  lost.  ...  I  will  love 
you  like  a  daughter  ..." 

But  Guillaume  prevented  her: 

"Why  humiliate  yourself,  Gilbert?  .  .  . 
If  my  mother  will  not  consent  ..." 

"Well?" 


AFFIANCED  149 

"Well,  are  we  not  free?" 

"No,  Guillaume,"  she  answered,  firmly, 
"I  will  not  marry  you  except  with  your 
mother's  entire  approval.*' 

He  turned  pale  and  murmured: 

"But  ...  we  shall  see  each  other  .  .  ." 

"We  shall  not  see  each  other.  We  can 
only  see  each  other  by  stealth;  and  that  is 
unworthy  of  us." 

"Suppose  I  meet  you  .  .  ." 

"I  shall  not  leave  the  Logis." 

"But  .  .  ." 

"We  will  wait,  Guillaume.  Am  I  not 
your  promised  bride?" 

He  bowed.  His  mother  went  out.  He 
followed  her. 

And  Gilberte  felt  as  though  she  had  never 
been  so  lonely  in  her  life. 


THE  DESEETED   HOUSE 

Next  day,  Gilberte  received  the  following 
letter  from  Maitre  Duforneril,  her  solicitor 
at  Dieppe : 

"Mademoiselle, 

"I  have  just  received  your  telegram  ask- 
ing me  where  we  stand  in  the  matter  of  our 
enquiries.  I  have  already  given  you  the  in- 
formation which  I  obtained  regarding  your 
life  and  that  of  your  parents  at  Liverpool, 
although  this,  unfortunately,  told  us  nothing 
new.  M.  Kellner,  which  was  the  name  un- 
der which  your  father  made  his  fortune  at 
Liverpool,  left  none  but  pleasant  memories 
behind  him  in  the  commercial  world  of  that 
city.  On  the  other  hand,  no  one  knew  any- 
thing of  his  private  life  or  of  his  antecedents. 

ISO 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE     151 

It  was  not  even  known  that  he  was  mar- 
ried; and  this  fully  bears  out  what  you  told 
me  of  the  retired  existence  which  your 
mother  and  yourself  used  to  lead. 

"I  was  therefore  obliged  to  pursue  our 
investigations  to  Berlin,  which  takes  us  six 
years  further  back.  Your  father  at  that 
time  called  himself  M.  Dumas.  And  here 
we  have  evidence  that  a  fire  broke  out  on 
the  15th  of  October  18 —  in  the  warehouse 
of  M.  Dumas,  a  bonder  of  Anjou  wines, 
in  the  Frischwasserstrasse.  Among  the 
rooms  completely  destroyed  was  that  which 
M.  Dumas,  who  was  at  the  same  time  a  gen- 
eral agent,  used  as  an  office  in  which  to  see 
his  clients,  most  of  whom  were  countrymen 
of  his  own.  M.  Dumas  made  an  affidavit 
from  which  it  appears  that  all  his  papers 
were  burnt. 

**On  this  side,  consequently,  we  arrive  at 
a  very  unfortunate  certainty:  your  family- 
papers  are  no  longer  in  existence;  that  is 
clear.    We  have  therefore  to  trace  your 


152     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

parents  back  to  the  time  of  their  departure 
from  France.  Once  we  have  done  this  and 
discovered  the  town  in  which  they  used  to 
live,  it  will  be  easy,  by  advertising,  to  find  out 
who  you  really  are. 

"Your  father  had  in  his  employment,  in 
Berlin,  a  Frenchman  of  the  name  of  Renau- 
deau,  whom  he  appears  to  have  trusted  ab- 
solutely and  to  have  treated,  according  to 
the  neighbours,  as  a  friend  of  long  standing. 
When  he  left  Berlin,  he  made  over  his  busi- 
ness to  Renaudeau.  Next  year,  Renaudeau 
went  bankrupt.  But  he  is  believed  to  be  at 
Hamburg.  I  have  written  to  the  French 
consul  there;  and  I  will  let  you  know  as 
soon  as  I  hear  from  him." 

Day  after  day  went  by,  days  like  those 
which  followed  on  her  arrival  at  Domfront. 
Gilberte  once  more  became  the  recluse  to 
whom  none  had  access  save  the  poor  and  des- 
titute of  the  countryside;  and,  though  they 
still  spoke  of  her  as  la  Bonne  Demoiselle  of 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE     158 

the  Logis  and  blessed  her  for  her  charity, 
it  might  well  be  that  they  no  longer  took 
away  with  them  that  impression  of  comfort 
which  they  welcomed  no  less  than  the  alms. 
How  could  she  have  consoled  them,  she  who 
herself  was  yearning  for  consolation? 

However,  she  did  not  give  up  all  hope. 
Gilberte  had  one  of  those  rather  passive  na- 
tures which,  in  happy  hours,  overflow  with 
generous  gladness,  but  which,  at  times  of 
trial,  fall  back  upon  themselves  and  live  in 
that  kind  of  quiet  contemplation  which  is  as 
it  were  a  patient  expectation.  Mastering 
her  sorrow  and  checking  any  signs  of  re- 
bellion or  distress,  she  appeared  less  sensi- 
tive than  others  to  the  most  cruel  blows  with 
which  fate  overwhelmed  her  and,  through 
every  obstacle  and  every  vicissitude,  she  pur- 
sued her  inward  dream,  sad  or  joyous,  bright 
or  gloomy,  but  always  built  up  of  love  and 
kindness. 

The  most  appalling  time  was  the  close  of 
day.     Night  fell  late  at  that  time  of  the 


154     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

year;  and  it  would  have  been  sweet  indeed 
to  go  down  to  the  summer-house  after  din- 
ner. She  had  not  a  doubt  but  that  Guil- 
laume  was  regular  in  his  attendance  at  their 
former  trysting-place.  He  must  be  stretch- 
ing out  his  arms  to  her  now,  calling  her,  en- 
treating her,  reproaching  her:  oh,  the  tor- 
ture of  not  being  able  to  go  to  him ! 

She  never  ceased  thinking  of  him.  The 
memories  of  their  common  past  formed  the 
only  charm  of  the  present;  and,  by  one  of 
love's  illusions,  she  made  her  own  memories 
begin  on  the  very  day  on  which  Guillaume's 
began.  And  so  she  remembered  the  minute 
when  he  had  caught  her  raising  her  mourn- 
ing-veil in  the  garden  by  the  ruins.  She 
remembered  the  moment  when,  hiding  be- 
hind a  curtain,  he  had  come  near  to  her  for 
the  first  time.  Had  she  not  always  loved 
him?  Why  had  she,  from  the  first  and  de- 
spite Guillaume's  deliberate  rebuffs,  sought 
to  tame  him,  as  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  called 
it,  and  to  win  his  liking?    Why  also  her  im- 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE     155 

pulse  of  friendship  towards  the  mysterious 
unknown  ? 

Gilberte  took  little  or  no  heed  of  what  the 
town  said  of  all  these  happenings,  having 
asked  Adele  not  to  tell  her:  an  order  which 
the  unfortunate  servant  found  great  diffi- 
culty in  obeying!  Domfront  was  bubbling 
and  seething  with  comments!  For,  after 
all,  there  was  this  undeniable  fact:  in  the 
sight  of  the  whole  world,  as  everybody  could 
bear  witness,  a  formal  proposal  had  been 
made  for  Gilberte's  hand  in  marriage;  and 
it  resulted  in  a  breach  between  the  La 
Vaudrayes  and  Mme.  Armand.  A  com- 
plete breach !  For  they  no  longer  even  saw 
one  another.  And  the  inexplicable  thing 
was  that,  since  that  famous  afternoon,  Mme. 
Armand  had  not  once  left  the  Logis. 

What  was  underneath  it  all  ?  From  which 
side  did  the  breach  come?  A  score  of  con- 
tradictory versions  went  the  round  of  the 
town,  but  none  of  them  bore  the  marks  of 
indisputable   authenticity   upon   which   the 


156     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

ever-scrupulous  world  insists  before  accept- 
ing a  piece  of  gossip  as  fact.  As  for  Mme. 
Duval,  she  was  in  a  desperate  plight. 
Pressed  with  questions,  she  was  reluctantly 
compelled  to  admit  that  she  knew  nothing. 

After  the  first  fortnight,  Gilberte,  who 
dared  not  walk  in  her  garden,  ventured  to 
go  out  once  or  twice,  but  only  at  times  and 
in  directions  where  she  ran  no  risk  of  meet- 
ing people.  Generally  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, she  would  slip  out  by  a  side-door  and 
make  her  way  down  to  the  river  by  the  most 
shady  and  roundabout  paths  of  the  wood 
skirting  the  Logis. 

Her  almost  daily  destination  was  the  lit- 
tle chapel  of  Notre-Dame-sur-l'Eau.  It 
was  here  that  she  had  had  her  last  interview 
with  Guillaume.  It  was  a  peaceful  spot, 
where  she  loved  to  dream.  One  day,  when 
she  was  coming  back  by  a  rambling  way,  she 
passed  the  house  which  was  once  tenanted 
by  those  Despriols  who  had  brought  about 
M.  and  Mme.  de  la  Vaudrayes'  ruin.     The 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE     157 

rusty  bars  of  the  gate  seemed  crumbling  to 
pieces.  A  tangle  of  weeds  and  brambles 
overran  the  garden.  The  front  of  the  house 
was  cracking;  the  slates  of  the  roof  were 
green;  the  windows  were  full  of  swallows* 
nests.  Everything  spoke  of  desertion  and 
neglect.  Nevertheless,  Gilberte  felt  drawn 
to  it. 

The  gate  resisted  her  efforts  and  she 
walked  round  the  garden-wall,  feeling  sure 
that  she  would  find  a  door  near  a  corner 
which  she  saw  a  little  way  off.  She  did  find 
one ;  and  it  was  open,  as  was  the  door  at  the 
top  of  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  house. 

She  had  no  sooner  gone  inside  than  the 
impression  which  the  old  house  had  made 
upon  her  became  so  distinct  as  to  awaken 
recognition.  It  was  that  curious  impression 
which  we  sometimes  receive  in  the  presence 
of  scenes  which  we  are  sure  that  we  have 
never  looked  upon  and  which  nevertheless 
we  seem  to  have  always  known.  It  is  im- 
possible that  we  should  ever  have  visited  a 


158     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

certain  town ;  and  yet  the  street  in  which  we 
are  is  quite  familiar  to  us :  we  have  seen  this 
shop  before,  that  sign-board,  this  gable,  that 
turning.  Where  and  when?  In  what  by- 
gone existence?  Or  is  it  only  an  illusion 
awakened  in  our  brain  by  a  series  of  similar 
pictures? 

"This  is  the  drawing-room,"  said  Gilberte, 
before  opening  the  door. 

And  she  amused  herself  by  likewise  point- 
ing out,  with  absolute  conviction,  the  kitchen 
and  the  dining-room. 

But  her  astonishment  was  great  indeed 
when,  on  the  first  floor,  she  entered  a  large 
room  hung  with  grey  wall-paper,  on  which 
birds  and  butterflies  flitted  amongst  blue 
flowers.  Where  had  she  seen  those  flowers, 
those  butterflies,  those  birds  before  ? 

She  gave  a  start :  in  a  corner,  on  the  dusty 
floor,  lay  a  doll,  the  last  stranded  relic  of  all 
that  had  once  filled  the  house.  And  Gil- 
berte knew  that  doll,  knew  it  beyond  a  doubt. 

She  picked  it  up  and,  at  the  first  touch  of 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE     159 

it,  was  seized  with  an  extraordinary  emotion, 
as  though  it  had  been  a  doll  of  her  childhood, 
a  doll  with  which  she  had  played  at  the  age 
of  three  or  four,  one  of  those  dolls  which 
little  girls  treat  as  babies,  lavishing  on  them 
all  the  devotion,  the  infinite  care,  the  tender- 
ness, the  pride  and  the  anxiety  of  the  future 
mother.  And  she  saw  this  one,  this  poor, 
wretched  rag  of  a  doll,  with  no  clothes  and 
only  half  a  head,  she  saw  it,  or  rather  re- 
called it,  clad  in  a  dress  of  orange  silk  and 
a  green  shawl,  with  bronze  shoes  on  its  feet, 
a  silver  chain  round  its  neck  and  the  most 
wonderful  mop  of  yellow  hair  upon  its  head. 

She  held  it  for  a  long  time ;  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  her  hands  were  used  to  that 
clumsy  body  and  to  the  badly -jointed  arms 
and  legs.  Nothing  about  the  doll  disgusted 
her.  She  felt  as  if  she  could  kiss  the  little 
porcelain  forehead,  the  prim,  painted  eye- 
brows, the  chubby  cheeks. 

There  was  a  faint  sound  behind  her.  She 
turned  round  and  saw  a  dirty-looking  woman 


160     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

with  curiously  staring  eyes  and  great  wisps 
of  white  hair  all  round  her  head.  She  was 
showing  her  teeth  in  a  fixed  and  silent  laugh. 
On  the  linen  rag  that  did  duty  as  a  necker- 
chief hung  a  queer  necklace  made  of  chips 
of  glass,  pebbles,  corks  and  twisted  grass. 

Suddenly  the  face  became  contracted  with 
rage :  its  owner  had  caught  sight  of  the  doll. 
She  ran  up  to  Gilberte,  snatched  it  from  her 
hands  and  brandished  it  as  though  she  would 
have  struck  the  girl  with  it.  But  the  doll 
fell  to  the  ground,  the  threatening  gesture 
ended  in  an  attitude  of  hesitation  and  the  old 
woman,  with  her  body  bent  forward  and  her 
eyes  staring,  gazed  at  Gilberte. 

Gilberte  was  frightened  at  first,  but  be- 
came gradually  reassured  under  this  steady 
gaze  in  which  she  seemed  to  feel  an  ardent 
and  curious  affection.  She  smiled  at  the 
old  woman,  who  gave  a  silent  laugh,  picked 
up  the  doll  and  handed  it  to  her  humbly  and 
gently.  Gilberte  refused  to  take  it  and  the 
old  woman  grasped  her  hand  and  led  her  to 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE     161 

the  second  floor,  to  a  cupboard  crammed  with 
child's  shoes,  rattles,  broken  toys,  a  little 
cradle,  a  chair  on  wheels  and  showed  them  to 
her  with  an  air  of  saying: 

"Pick  where  you  like,  take  what  you  like ; 
I  give  them  to  you." 

But  none  of  these  things  tempted  Gil- 
berte.  Then  the  old  woman  took  her  down 
to  the  garden,  led  her  to  an  acacia-tree,  to 
a  wooden  bench,  to  what  remained  of  a  dove- 
cote and,  at  each  halt,  questioned  her  with 
her  eager  eyes. 

At  last,  Gilberte  felt  weary;  little  by  lit- 
tle, since  the  woman's  arrival,  the  deserted 
house  had  lost  its  mysterious  charm  for  her; 
and  she  began  to  think  of  going.  There- 
upon the  old  crone,  anticipating  her  wishes, 
took  a  key  from  her  pocket  and  opened  the 
rusty  gate.  She  stooped,  as  Gilberte  went 
out,  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her  dress. 

Turning  round,  a  few  minutes  after,  Gil- 
berte saw  her  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  making  signs  to  her. 


162     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

When  she  returned  to  the  Logis,  she  told 
her  adventure  to  Adele,  who  exclaimed: 

"Why,  it  must  have  heen  Desiree,  the 
Despriols'  old  nurse  I  She  is  a  poor  old 
madwoman,  but  quite  harmless,  and  lives 
near  Notre-Dame-sur-l'Eau.  She  does 
nothing  but  wander  round  the  house  where 
she  was  a  servant.  She  has  been  mad  for 
quite  two  years,  ever  since  the  death  of  her 
husband  and  her  three  sons.  It  came  upon 
her  all  of  a  sudden  .  .  ." 

"But  had  the  Despriols  a  child?"  asked 
Gilberte. 

"I  should  think  sol  A  little  girl  who 
might  have  been  three  or  four  years  old  at 
the  time  when  they  went  away :  a  dear  little 
duck;  and  her  nurse  adored  her.  It  broke 
the  poor  thing's  heart  to  part  with  her. 
Since  she  went  mad,  she  thinks  oftener  of 
the  baby  than  of  her  own  three  sons.  They 
did  say  that  she  heard  about  the  child  and 
that  Mme.  Despriol  used  to  write  to  her." 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE     163 

"Did  you  know  this  Mme.  Despriol, 
Adele?" 

"That  I  did,  at  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye*s, 
when  they  lived  here.  .  .  .  She  was  a  very 
nice  lady,  so  cheerful  and  pleasant;  good- 
looking,  too,  but,  worse  luck,  so  weak  with 
her  husband  that  he  did  as  he  liked  with 
her." 

"Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  told  me  something 
about  some  jewels  ..." 

"Oh,  that  was  quite  true  I  There's  no 
denying  it:  a  thief  she  was  .  .  .  and  Mme. 
de  la  Vaudraye  has  good  reason  not  to  love 
her.  And  how  she  does  detest  her!  And 
then  she  was  jealous  of  M.  de  la  Vaudraye, 
who  ventured  to  flirt  just  the  least  bit  with 
Mme.  Despriol.  You  can  imagine  how  mad 
Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  was  I  She  turns  pale 
to  this  day,  if  you  mention  Henrietta  Des- 
priol's  name  .  .  ." 

A  few  days  later,  Gilberte  received  an- 
other letter  from  Maitre  Dufomeril: 


164     THE  EYES  OP  INNOCENCE 

"Mademoiselle, 

"We  are  making  headway  with  our  en- 
quiries and  I  hope  soon  to  send  you  the 
news  of  our  success.  This  Renaudeau  who 
took  over  M.  Dumas'  business  in  Berlin  is, 
as  we  thought,  at  Hamburg.  He  has  seen 
the  consul  and  declares  that  he  knew  your 
father  for  many  years,  going  back  to  the  date 
when  he  was  still  living  in  France.  He  re- 
fuses, for  the  present,  to  reveal  M.  Dumas' 
real  name  and  antecedents;  but  I  have  no 
doubt  that  this  Renaudeau,  who  is  in  a  state 
of  the  greatest  poverty,  will  yield  to  certain 
arguments. 

"I  think  I  may  safely  say,  therefore,  that 
my  next  letter  will  inform  you  of  the  name 
of  your  parents  and  the  place  at  which  you 
were  born.  .  .  .'* 


XI 

gilberte's  name 

GiLBEETE,  who  WES  Icss  proof  against  joy 
than  sorrow,  awaited  her  solicitor's  promised 
letter  with  feverish  impatience.  Another 
four  or  five  days,  a  week  perhaps;  and  the 
mystery  would  be  cleared  up  and  the  only 
obstacle  to  her  marriage  swept  away. 

She  kept  more  and  more  indoors.  What 
was  the  use  of  short,  stealthy  walks,  when 
her  imagination,  which  was  now  unfettered, 
took  her  across  the  immensity  of  the  world, 
on  Guillaume's  arm,  under  Guillaume's 
eyes?  She  tried  to  read  novels,  to  calm  her 
excitement.  But  what  are  fictitious  adven- 
tures worth  at  a  time  when  our  own  destiny 
is  on  the  point  of  fulfilment  and  when  it  is 
to  be  fulfilled  in  cloudless  happiness?  The 
one  and  only  adventure  was  that  which  was 

IQft 


166     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

leading  her  towards  Guillaume.  The  story 
began  and  ended  with  Guillaume.  Guil- 
laume was  its  sole  hero. 

"It  will  come  to-morrow,"  she  said,  each 
day,  with  the  fixed  intention  of  sending  the 
letter,  the  moment  she  received  it,  to  Mme. 
de  la  Vaudraye. 

The  morning  came  and  the  afternoon  and 
brought  no  letter.  She  felt  not  the  least  dis- 
appointment : 

"It  will  come  to-morrow,"  she  thought,  all 
a-quiver  with  hope. 

The  postman  became  a  person  of  impor- 
tance in  her  eyes,  a  gentleman  worth  con- 
sidering. She  shot  her  prettiest  smiles  at 
him,  as  though  she  were  trying  to  win  his 
confidence  and  to  persuade  him  that  he  must 
have  a  letter  for  her  in  his  bag. 

Adele  was  enraptured: 

"Oh,  ma'am,  you're  becoming  as  you  used 
to  be!  And  high  time  tool  Yes,  I  was 
growing  uneasy  at  seeing  you  always  sad, 
taking  no  interest  in  things  and  looking  so 


GILBERTE'S  NAME  167 

pale.  But,  there,  you're  right:  there's  as 
good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out  of  it  I" 

Released  from  her  silence,  Adele  was  at 
last  able  to  repeat  all  that  Domfront  had  said 
about  the  breach  and  all  that  was  happening 
now.  And  Gilberte  learnt  that  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye's  salon,  after  closing  for  three 
weeks,  had  reopened.  M.  Beaufrelant  and 
M.  le  Hourteulx  had  been  invited.  Mme. 
Duval  even. predicted  an  approaching  recon- 
ciliation with  the  younger  Simare,  whose 
father  had  never  ceased  pleading  in  his 
favour.  At  the.  last  reception,  the  duet  from 
Mireille,  as  sung  by  M.  Lartiste  the  elder 
and  Mle.  du  Bocage,  both  of  whom  were 
making  great  progress,  had  been  vigorously 
applauded.  But  the  chief  thing  was  the 
transformation  undergone  by  Guillaume, 
whom  everybody  considered  changed  for  the 
better. 

"They  can't  get  over  it,"  said  Adele.  "I 
hear  that  he  is  the  life  and  soul  of  the  party 
and  so  amiable  and  so  polite:  just  like  a 


168     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

proper  young  man.  He  seems  on  the  best 
of  terms  with  his  mother.  The  young  ladies 
are  all  gone  on  him.  Bless  my  soul,  he*s 
a  good-looking  lad  .  .  .  and  it  won't  take 
long  before  he's  turned  all  their  heads  .  .  .'* 

Gilberte  reflected : 

"He's  quite  right  tamake  himself  amiable. 
It's  the  only  way  to  get  round  his  mother." 

Nevertheless,  she  had  to  make  a  certain 
effort  to  look  upon  this  as  the  only  explana- 
tion of  Guillaume's  conduct. 

Two  more  days  followed  without  a  letter. 
Then,  one  morning,  Adele  came  back  from 
her  shopping: 

"Here's  a  bit  of  news!"  she  said. 
"There's  no  harm  in  telling  you,  now  that 
you've  got  over  things.  M.  Guillaume  is 
engaged  to  the  eldest  Charmeron  girl." 

Gilberte  burst  out  laughing: 

•'It's  one  of  Mme.  Duval's  matches  1'* 

"No,  no,  I  hear  it  from  others  as  well: 
the  Bottentuits'  servant  told  me;  so  did  M. 
Beaufrelant's  gardener.     Mme.  de  la  Vaud- 


GILBERTE'S  NAME  169 

raye  announced  it  last  night  when  every  one 
was  there." 

Not  for  a  moment  did  Gilberte  admit  the 
possibility  of  so  great  a  perfidy.  Nothing 
evil  could  ever  come  from  within  her:  no 
suspicions,  no  doubts,  no  base  thoughts ;  and 
whatever  came  from  without  broke  against 
her  love  like  impotent  waves.  How  could 
she  have  pictured  treachery,  who  did  not 
know  that  treachery  existed? 

She  was  therefore  very  cheerful  all  day 
long.  Nevertheless,  at  sunset,  an  irresistible 
force  drew  her  to  the  ruined  summer-house. 
Guillaume  was  not  among  the  rocks  in  the 
valley. 

Nor  did  she  see  him  the  next  day.  That 
night,  she  had  a  touch  of  fever  and  her  mind 
wandered  a  little,  mingling  the  picture  of 
Guillaume  with  that  of  Mile.  Charmeron. 

She  laughed  merrily  at  all  this  on  waking. 
Nothing  could  touch  her  faith  in  her  lover. 
She  was  as  sure  of  him  as  of  herself. 

She  rose  in  good  spirits,  resolved  to  be 


170     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

happy  come  what  might.  And  she  was 
happy:  a  plucky  creature  judging  others  by 
her  own  lofty  standards,  whose  nerves  and 
woman's  instinct  may  be  alarmed  for  a  mo- 
ment, without  allowing  a  breath  to  disturb 
the  serenity  of  her  soul. 

She  played  and  sang  until  lunch-time. 
After  lunch,  she  strolled  in  her  garden  and 
picked  some  flowers.  When  she  went  in, 
she  found  Guillaume  waiting  for  her  in  the 
drawing-room : 

"You  .  .  .  you  .  .  .1"  she  murmured, 
half-swooning  with  emotion. 

She  was  obliged  to  sit  down  and  they  re- 
mained at  some  distance  from  each  other,  not 
daring  to  raise  their  eyes.  It  seemed  to  Gil- 
berte  as  though  her  whole  hfe  would  not  be 
enough  to  take  in  all  the  joy  that  wrapped 
her  round.  How  right  had  she  been  to  be 
happy  in  spite  of  all  things  and  to  prepare 
herself  for  this  greater  happiness,  which  she 
could  never  have  borne,  had  she  been  sad  and 
suspicious. 


GILBERTE'S  NAME         171 

Guillaume  asked: 

"Did  you  not  meet  my  mother?  She  is 
looking  for  you  in  the  garden." 

"Is  your  mother  here  ?" 

"Oh,  Gilberte,  would  I  have  come  without 
her,  when  I  would  not  even  go  over  there, 
among  the  rocks,  for  fear  of  displeasing 
you?" 

She  recalled  her  disappointment  of  the 
last  evening  and  the  evening  before  and  was 
on  the  point  of  accusing  herself  .  .  .  but  of 
what?  Had  she  lent  a  willing  ear  to  the 
calumnies  of  the  town?     She  said,  simply: 

"I  am  glad  of  what  you  have  done  for 
Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye." 

"What  have  I  done?" 

"Was  it  not  a  sacrifice  to  be  at  her  par- 
ties?" 

He  went  up  to  Gilberte : 

"A  sacrifice?  Not  at  all.  .  .  .  Ah,  that's 
because  you  don't  know  what  has  happened 
during  the  last  few  days!  .  .  .  Why,  I  am 
prepared  to  do  all  that  she  wishes  and  to 


172     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

take  an  interest  in  all  that  interests  her  and 
to  like  everything  that  she  likes!  ...  If 
you  only  knew,  Gilberte.  .  .  .  Listen  .  .  . 
or  rather,  no,  I  prefer  that  she  should  tell 
you  .  .  .» 

"Oh,"  cried  Gilberte,  "if  they  are  hope- 
ful words,  precious  words,  why  not  say  them 
yourself,  Guillaume?  Will  they  not  be 
sweeter  if  I  hear  them  from  your  lips? 
Speak,  Guillaume  ...  I  want  them  to  be 
associated  in  my  memory  with  the  sound  of 
your  voice  .  .  .  please,  please  ..." 

She  besought  him  with  her  gentle,  loving 
smile.     He  at  once  said : 

"Very  well,  Gilberte,  I  will." 

He  was  interrupted  by  Adele,  bringing  in 
a  letter  on  a  tray.  Gilberte  took  the  letter 
and,  while  the  servant  was  leaving  the  room, 
mechanically  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  post- 
mark.   A  cry  escaped  her: 

"Guillaume  I" 

Her  fingers  trembled.  She  could  only 
whisper: 


GILBERTE'S  NAME  173 

"A  letter  from  Dieppe  .  .  .  from  my 
solicitor.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  was  waiting  for  it  so 
anxiously!  .  .  .  Think,  Guillaume :  it  brings 
me  a  name  .  .  .  nothing  can  separate  us 
now  .  .  ." 

The  excitement  was  too  much  for  her. 
She  felt  herself  small  and  feeble  in  the  grip 
of  an  over-great  happiness.  And,  covering 
her  face  with  her  crossed  hands,  as  was  her 
wont  at  moments  of  perturbation,  she  wept 
tears  of  delight. 

Some  minutes  passed  in  silence.  She 
heard  Guillaume  open  the  garden-door. 
Steps  approached,  some  one  sat  down  beside 
her,  a  hand  unlocked  her  fingers:  it  was 
Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye. 

She  shrank  back  imperceptibly.  But 
Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  said: 

"Gilberte,  are  you  afraid  of  me?" 

And  the  voice  was  so  gentle  that  Gilberte 
was  quite  stirred.  She  looked  at  her 
through  her  tears  and  hardly  recognized  her. 
Her  features  had  lost  their  customary  hard- 


174     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

ness,  her  countenance  the  expression  of  im- 
placable pride  that  deprived  it  of  all  its 
charm.  And  this  charm  now  showed  itself 
in  the  eyes,  which  had  lost  their  severity,  in 
the  pathetic  wrinkles  of  the  forehead,  in  all 
that  sad  and  withered  face. 

"Gilberte,  you  wished  to  be  my  daughter: 
do  you  wish  it  still?" 

She  had  no  time  to  reply.  Guillaume  had 
rushed  up  to  both  of  them  and  was  kissing 
them  by  turns.     And  he  said,  fervently: 

"Let  us  love  her,  Gilberte.  We  owe  her 
the  greatest  gratitude  for  what  she  is  doing. 
It  means  the  sacrifice  of  her  most  cherished 
ideas  and  she  has  consented  to  that  sacrifice 
of  her  own  accord." 

"Come,  Guillaume,  don't  make  me  out 
better  than  I  am!"  protested  Mme.  de  la 
Vaudraye,  in  a  playful  tone.  "Are  you 
quite  sure  that  I  have  not  merely  yielded  to 
sordid  motives?  If  Gilberte  had  been  a 
poor  girl,  without  any  money  ..." 


GILBERTE'S  NAME  175 

"Oh,  madame,"  said  Gilberte,  "that 
counts  for  so  little  1" 

"Yes,  with  you  and  Guillaume,  who  are 
young  and  think  only  of  your  happiness,  but 
not  with  me,  who  have  suffered  so  much  from 
the  change  in  my  fortunes.  I  can't  help  it : 
one  cannot  alter  at  my  age ;  I  have  a  name  of 
which  I  am  very  vain;  and  my  dream  has 
always  been  to  restore  it  to  all  its  brilliancy." 

She  playfully  stroked  Gilberte's  hair: 

"And  think  of  all  my  blandishments,  from 
the  very  beginning,  Mme.  Armandl  You 
can't  say  that  I  wasn't  clever  in  getting 
round  you  and  making  you  do  what  I 
wanted!  Well,  then,  one  day,  you  tell  me 
that  you  have  bought  up  my  family  estates 
and  you  offer  to  reinstate  me  as  mistress  of 
the  Logis.  How  could  I  have  the  courage 
to  refuse?" 

She  displayed  a  sort  of  unspoken  wish  to 
make  amends  to  Gilberte,  a  wish  which  her 
pride  prevented  her  from  revealing  as  openly 


176     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

as  her  heart  would  have  prompted  her,  but 
which,  nevertheless,  appeared  in  her  man- 
ner of  confessing,  as  though  in  fun,  the 
shabby  side  of  her  behaviour.  Gilberte  had 
too  much  delicacy  of  mind  to  take  pleasure 
in  this  admission  and  replied: 

"It's  your  son's  happiness  which  you  have 
not  had  the  courage  to  reject.  It  is  so  easy 
to  tell  that  all  your  ambitions  and  all  your 
hopes  are  only  for  him." 

But  Guillaume  was  less  indulgent  and  ex- 
claimed; 

"Really,  mother,  one  would  think  that 
you  were  trying  to  cheapen  your  consent! 
Come,  tell  her  of  our  talks  of  the  past  fort- 
night, tell  her  that  you  know  the  whole  story 
of  our  love  and  that  you  understand  Gil- 
berte, as  she  deserves,  and  that  that  is  why 
you  agree." 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  made  a  last  stand. 
It  was  the  final  effort  of  her  vanity.  She 
seemed  undecided,  bewildered,  staggering, 
like  one  trying  to  keep  her  footing  before 


GILBERTE'S  NAME  177 

falling;  and  then,  suddenly  vanquished,  she 
took  Gilberte  in  her  arms; 

"Yes,  child,  yes,  it  was  you  who  conquered 
me  ...  I  have  come  to  you  not  because  you 
are  rich  and  generous,  but  because  you  are 
good  and  sincere  and  the  noblest  creature 
that  ever  lived.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  have  thought  of 
the  future,  from  the  start,  and  I  think  of  it 
still;  but,  also  from  the  start,  your  good- 
ness has  been  working  on  me  as  on  every  one 
else.  I  loved  you  apart  from  any  sort  of 
calculation.  And,  after  refusing  my  con- 
sent, it  was  no  use  my  heaping  up  reasons 
to  confirm  me  in  my  resolve :  I  could  only  re- 
member your  dear  gentleness,  your  inno- 
cence, your  childlike  simplicity." 

"Oh,"  whispered  Gilberte,  "how  happy 
you  make  me  I" 

"You  shall  always  be  happy,  child,  where 
it  depends  on  me:  that  I  promise  you.  .  .  . 
As  for  Guillaume,  oh,  if  you  knew  how  he 
speaks  of  his  sweetheart!  I  know  you  now 
as  well  as  he  does.    But  did  I  need  his  words 


178     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

in  order  to  know  you  ?  What  he  feels  in  you, 
that  delicate  bloom  and  innocence,  I  have 
always  felt.  And  I  know  all  the  power  of 
your  eyes :  they  bring  purity  and  peace  .  .  . 
one  is  better  for  looking  at  them  .  .  .  one 
sees  more  clearly  ..." 

Gilberte,  in  her  confusion,  nestled  her 
head  against  the  friendly  shoulder.  She  was 
delaying,  as  a  joy  in  reserve,  the  news  of 
her  recovered  name;  and  the  thought  of  the 
pleasure  which  she  held  in  store  gave  her 
tiny  thrills  of  impatience.  She  said,  in  a 
whisper : 

"Then  .  .  .  my  name  .  .  .  my  past  .  .  ." 

"Rubbish!"  cried  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye. 
"What  did  all  that  matter  where  you  were 
concerned,  my  innocent  Gilberte?  Those 
prejudices  fade  away  into  nothing  when  we 
look  at  them  with  your  eyes  and  judge  them 
with  your  candour." 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  asked  the  girl,  re- 
leasing herself  and  looking  at  her  with  a 
radiant  air.     "Have  you  no  regrets?" 


GILBERTE'S  NAME  179 

"None  at  all." 

"Then  read  this  letter,  which  has  just 
come:  it  will  tell  you  the  secret  ...  I  too 
have  a  family.  .  .  .  Ah,  madame,  you  will 
have  no  need  to  blush  for  me!" 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  did  not  at  first  un- 
derstand ;  then,  when  Gilberte  had  told  her 
of  the  search  conducted  by  the  solicitor,  she 
could  not  conceal  her  satisfaction: 

"So  you  have  succeeded?  Oh,  I  am  glad  I 
.  .  .  Why  should  I  deny  it?  I  was  both- 
ered in  advance  about  what  other  people 
would  say :  pardon  my  weakness,  I  can  con- 
fess it  now  that  I  have  accepted  you  as  a 
daughter  before  knowing  that  your  parents 
were  worthy  of  you.  The  fear  that  they 
might  not  be  was  the  only  obstacle ;  and  that 
was  irrevocable.  But  I  overcame  that  fear. 
Something  to  boast  of,  was  it  not?  As 
though  it  were  difficult  to  know  them,  when 
one  knows  you !" 

She  took  the  letter,  felt  it  and  said : 

"We  shall  soon  learn  the  name  of  two 


180     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

good  people.  Your  father  must  have  had 
your  fascination,  Gilberte ;  and  your  mother : 
I  picture  your  mother  as  an  exquisite, 
charming  creature  hke  yourself.  .  .  .  Did 
you  love  her  very  much?" 

"More  than  my  life,  madame." 

"Here,  Guillaume,  read  it  out." 

Guillaume  took  and  opened  the  envelope. 
As  he  was  unfolding  the  letter  which  it 
contained,  he  had  a  momentary  hesitation. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  Mme. 
de  la  Vaudraye. 

"Nothing,"  he  said,  presently. 

And  he  imfolded  the  letter. 

They  were  there,  all  three  of  them,  af- 
fected in  different  ways,  but  anxious  and 
even  a  little  timorous,  as  we  are  at  the  ap- 
proach of  the  solemn  events  of  our  lives, 
even  when  we  expect  nothing  from  them  but 
pleasure  and  satisfaction. 

"Well?"  asked  Gilberte,  who  was  certainly 
the  least  excited  of  the  three. 


GILBERTE'S  NAME         181 

Guillaume  made  up  his  mind  and  read, 
aloud : 

"Mademoiselle, 

"As  I  expected,  our  friend  Renaudeau 
did  not  persist  in  his  silence  very  long  and, 
without  further  procrastination,  has  told  us 
as  much  of  your  father's  story  as  interests 
you.  We  now  know  that,  at  the  time  when 
he  was  hving  in  France  .  .  ." 

Guillaume  stopped.  He  hesitated  once 
more  and  the  letter  fell  from  his  hands  to 
his  knees. 

Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye  grew  impatient : 
"What  are  you  thinking  of,  my  boy?" 
He  replied,  in  a  dreamy  voice: 
"I  am  thinking  that  we  are  about  to  vio- 
late the  secret  of  two  persons  who  must 
surely  have  had  their  reasons  for  keeping 
it  so  carefully.     They  may  have  been  the  off- 
spring of  two  rival  families,  or  a  pair  of 
lovers  who  were  kept  apart  by  convention. 


182     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

but  whose  hearts  drew  them  together.  Who 
can  tell?  In  any  case,  don't  you  think  that 
their  secret  belongs  to  them  and  that  there 
is  no  reason  that  authorizes  us  to  violate 
it?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  mother,  tell  me  what  reasons  you 
can  have,  tell  me  before  that  angel  who  is 
listening  to  us!  You  treated  them  as  rub- 
bish just  now:  have  they  become  graver  rea- 
sons since?  State  them:  express  your  fear 
of  public  opinion,  your  dread  of  evil  tongues, 
your  horror  of  comment;  and,  as  you  do  so, 
look  into  that  pair  of  child-eyes  and  ask 
yourself  if  they  understand  what  you  are 
saying." 

She  protested  feebly: 

"What  a  strange  wish,  Guillaumel 
There  is  something  which  you  are  keeping 
back." 

"Yes,"  he  cried,  rising  from  his  chair, 
"there  is  something  else  which  I  do  not  see 
clearly.  ...  It  is  my  love  that  objects.  .  .  . 


GILBERTE'S  NAME  188 

I  don't  want  to  lift  the  veil  that  shrouds 
Gilberte.  ...  I  prefer  her  so.  .  .  She  is 
more  mine  like  this  .  .  ." 

He  was  walking  up  and  down  excitedly. 
Gilberte  held  out  her  arms  to  him.  He 
flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  her: 

"Gilberte,  I  beseech  you,  remain  for  me 
the  dear  unknown  whom  I  loved  from  the 
first  day  that  I  saw  her.  I  do  not  know 
what  prompts  me  to  beg  this  of  you,  but 
I  want  you  to  give  me  the  intense  joy  of 
feeling  that  you  exist  only  through  me,  that 
you  are  commencing  your  life  with  me,  that 
you  are  heaping  still  more  darkness  upon 
your  past  so  that  your  eyes  may  be  obliged 
to  turn  still  more  towards  the  future.  Be 
the  unknown  lady  of  the  Logis.  Be  the  un- 
known who  mingled  her  dreams  with  mine, 
the  dear  unknown  who  came  from  I  know 
not  where,  but  who  came  to  me,  of  that  I  am 
certain." 

She  hung  on  his  words.  He  stammered, 
incoherently : 


184     THE  EYES  OF  INNOCENCE 

"Oh,  you  will  do  it  ...  I  feel  iti  .  .  . 
And  yet,  Gilberte,  listen  .  .  .  the  secret  is 
yours  .  .  .  you  yourself  have  the  right  to 
know  .  .  ." 

She  answered,  with  a  smile  that  lifted  him 
into  the  seventh  heaven; 

"Guillaume,  I  do  not  want  to  know  what 
you  will  not  know.  .  .  .  Besides,  it  matters 
so  little!  I  was  only  happy  for  your  moth- 
er's sake." 

He  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  hands. 
Presently,  they  heard  Mme.  de  la  Vaudraye 
tearing  up  the  letter.     She  said,  simply: 

*'It  shall  be  as  you  wish,  my  dear  chil- 
dren. But  don't  you  think,  Guillaume,  that 
there  will  be  difficulties,  that  the  law  re- 
quires .  .  .  ?" 

"Never  mind  the  difficulties!"  he  cried. 
"We  shall  see  to  that  later.  Everything  will 
be  settled  as  we  intend,  I  am  sure  of  it." 

A  long  silence  followed,  full  of  grave 
sweetness.     At  the  end  of  it,  however,  Guil- 


GILBERTE'S  NAME  185 

laume,  smitten  with  a  vague  remorse,  mur- 
mured : 

"And  so,  dearest,  you  will  never  know 
your  name?" 

She  smiled: 

"But  I  know  my  name:  is  it  not  Gilberte 
de  la  Vaudraye?" 

"But  your  mother?" 

"Oh,  my  mother!"  she  said,  with  shining 
eyes.     "Mother's  name  was  mammal" 


THE  END 


JS_ 


-^y?«HraaBatt- 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


A    001  166  101     4 


yiiiiililili  i  M 


;H!i!ii! 


II 


ill 


